Harry Potter and the Tempus Tale
by Wimpole Street
Summary: When Harry was about to go to Slughorn's with Dumbledore in HBP, something unforeseen happens. Now, he must tackle ancient fairy-tales and a mysterious, international organisation, before it's too late. HBP Divergence; Resourceful!Harry, non-slash.
1. Chapter One: The Secret Vault

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or anything you can recognise from the books. The series belongs to J.K. Rowling and the people who publish the books and produce the movies.

**Rating:** T, for mild violence?

**Summary:** When Harry was about to go to Slughorn's with Dumbledore in HBP, something unforeseen happens. Now, he must tackle ancient fairy-tales and a mysterious, international organisation, before it's too late. HBP Divergence; Resourceful!Harry, (hopefully) Competent!Voldemort, non-slash.

**Spoilers:** For now, the first six books. DH spoilers will come later.

**Notes:** This story diverges between Chapter Two and Chapter Three of HBP, so assume that everything up to "Will and Won't" has already happened. This first chapter is in the same vein as the first chapter of GoF, or the first chapter of HBP, so please persevere with me. Chapter Two onwards will be Harry's POV.

Kudos to **enembee**, who so far helped me tonnes with this story. The opening of Chapter One is pretty much attributable to him.

Please enjoy and, if you have time, leave a review! Any response will help me reach my goal: to finish this story before DH: Part Two is released!

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**Harry Potter and the Tempus Tale**

**– CHAPTER ONE –**

_The Secret Vault_

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-X-X-X-

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Mr. McGregor was a man of great discipline, or so he liked to think. He never succumbed to road-rage, even when the car in front of his was crawling instead of moving, he never ate popcorn by the fistful at the cinemas (unlike the nose ring-wearing hooligans these days), and he never dropped his expression of perpetual disinterest. Nothing – no surprise birthday parties, no phone calls from pregnant, teenage daughters – could faze him.

He was, in his mind's eye, a pillar of strength.

And rightly so, for such qualities were important in a job like his. Mr. McGregor was a floor manager at the eminent and world renowned Clarence Securities. Known from New York to Timbuktu, it was the world's foremost and indeed only provider of personal security vaults. Nine floors of completely impenetrable protection, housing millions of pounds worth of valuables and secrets. It made Mr. McGregor tremble with pride at the very thought of it.

As it happened, Mr. McGregor was very good at his job, despite only having been promoted to it last week. Though he had been working at Clarence Securities for the last ten years. His devotion to the firm had to be rewarded at some point. Under Mr McGregor's shrewd watch, attempted break-ins at Clarence Securities had fallen to an all-time low. Last month alone Mr McGregor caught two strange, robed men in one of the secured vaults, red-handed.

Strange, robed men had been trying to break into the firm's high-security vaults for all of last year.

"Most intruders get caught by the primary alarm system – the laser activated one – in the vestibule," explained Thompson, his supervising officer, as he handed Mr McGregor a grey, striped uniform; the uniform of a Floor Manager, Mr McGregor's new position.

"These last intruders, though, now they were a weird bunch. Skipped the primary alarm system and somehow got to the front of the vaults before we caught them. If I didn't know better, I'd swear to Jezzus n' Mary that it was like magic."

Thompson tossed Mr McGregor's old, orange Hall Monitor uniform into a collecting bin.

"1996 is turning out to be the strangest year yet," Thompson grumbled. "You'd better watch out, McGregor."

Mr McGregor did consider Thompson's words for a moment. The robed intruders were quite perturbing; when they were caught, they drew out peculiar, wooden sticks from their sleeves and yelled incoherently. Nothing would appear to happen, and the strangers would panic. At this point, people from higher up the security firm – higher than Thompson or Mr McGregor – would burst in and take the intruders.

Mr McGregor never knew or heard what happened to the strange, robed men afterwards.

But that didn't daunt Mr McGregor. Dealing with crazies was all a part of an honest day's work, his father would say. Life was too short to agonise over details; inexplicable things – finding misplaced car-keys in the fridge, tricks of light in crowded alleyways – happened to everyone. No need to raise a furore.

So Mr McGregor dismissed Thompson's concerns and continued his disciplined professionalism at Clarence Securities. For the week following his promotion to Floor Manager, Mr McGregor scrutinised the spy cameras on his floor, the Seventh Floor, and ran the patrols of the floor's vaults like a tight ship.

"The vaults must be protected at all times, priceless valuables from priceless clients are stored there," Mr McGregor murmured to himself. His rotund belly heaved as he admonished Vesta Smith, a Hall Monitor, for dawdling in front of Vault 713; the rosy-cheeked woman – a new recruit from the higher ups – was staring at the vault instead of patrolling, like she was supposed to.

Honestly, the recruits were growing more and more incompetent, by Mr McGregor's estimation. The other day, Vesta Smith picked up a potato peeler and asked if it was used to clean toilet seats, and the new Hall Monitor Sturg Puddlemere didn't know how to do basic Calculus. If the clients knew, they would pull their connections and belongings out of the firm faster than you could say "Abracadabra". Where were the competent Hall Monitors of the old days, people who could do GCSE maths and use kitchen utensils appropriately?

The world was becoming less and less familiar to Mr McGregor of Clarence Securities by the month.

Mr McGregor broached the subject to his wife on one dreary, July evening, after work. Mrs McGregor looked up from her cup of tea and frowned.

"Now that you mention it, Peter, things have been rather odd this year. 1996 is shaping up to be quite terrible," Mrs McGregor said carefully.

"What on earth do you mean, dear?"

"This infernal fog, for one. We're in the middle of summer, yet some days I have to squint when I'm driving." Mrs McGregor pointed out the kitchen window and, sure enough, an unnatural mist clung against the outdoor pane, its cold fingers obscuring the streetlight which filtered into the house.

"It's not normal, Peter, not at all. Also, didn't you hear about the Brockdale Bridge?"

When Mr McGregor shook his head, Mrs McGregor looked grim. "It collapsed, like a house of cards. Dozens of cars sank into the Wansbeck River, and many more people were seriously injured. The Masons' son is still in a coma from the accident."

"That's not even the worst part," Mrs McGregor said. "The fact is, no one has a clue what caused it. The police are blaming faulty suspension cables, but experts say that's doubtful. Scotland Yard is completely bonkers these days. They still haven't pieced together how Amelia Bones managed to get murdered in her flat."

Mrs McGregor sipped her Oolong tea. "Not to mention how I keep on seeing these peculiar, robed people scurrying around that dilapidated pub on Charing Cross Road. You'd think that they feared for their lives, by the way they were hopping about."

"These are strange times we live in, dearest. I'd keep an eye out at work, to be safe," said Mrs McGregor. Mr McGregor stared questioningly at his wife through his horn-rimmed glasses, imploring her to elaborate, but she began leafing through a faded copy of Women's Weekly. The conversation was over.

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* * *

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For the rest of June, Mr McGregor heeded his wife's words and paid closer attention than usual. It turned out that this exercise in increased wariness was rather enlightening. Mr McGregor discovered that Vesta Smith always carried a strange stick, in the orange back-pockets of her uniform. After work, the thatch-haired Sturg Puddlemere would creep into a dark alleyway, when no one was looking, and seemingly disappear. The higher uppers of Clarence Securities, the mysterious ones who spirited away the strange, robed intruders, would also scurry into such alleyways after work and vanish.

The most curious discovery, however, to Mr McGregor's surprise, was that all this "freakiness" was connected to Vault the attempted break-ins in the past three months; all but three were aimed at entering Vault 713. The robed intruders targeted that vault exclusively. Moreover, Vesta Smith and Sturg Puddlemere were both Hall Monitors charged with patrolling the vaults of the seventh floor, including 713. Whenever the peculiar higher ups inspected the seventh floor, they spent hours examining Vault 713, compared to the cursory minutes spent on the other vaults.

Only Mr McGregor's great self-discipline stopped him from yelling out "Fishy Business".

Mr McGregor's suspicions were further kindled on another foggy Wednesday morning. He was pouring himself a hot cup of tea (Earl Grey, two sugars) in the employee's lounge. The morning had become even colder than usual, with that dratted, frigid mist thickening every passing minute. But when Mr McGregor had downed his cup, he heard two sets of footsteps clambering towards the lounge. Feeling suspicious, he plopped the teacup in the sink and hid behind the ugly, grey fridge.

Surely enough, a pinch-faced, pink-cheeked woman and a gaunt, limping man with straw-coloured hair, both dressed in orange uniforms, soon strode into the room. Vesta Smith and Sturg Puddlemere.

The two, strange Hall Monitors huddled surreptitiously by the water cooler. Mr McGregor strained to hear their whispered conversation.

Puddlemere's voice was hoarse and rushed, tinged with a fearful urgency: "The attacks are gettin worse and worse. We've already lost Emmeline, and now, Ollivander's gone too. Like it wasn't bad 'nuff when we lost Amelia Bones."

Mr McGregor's moustache quivered. Amelia Bones? The batty woman whose death still stumped the police? Attacks getting worse?

"Pipe it down, Podmore, someone might hear you," Smith hissed. "Mind that this is a _Muggle_ company, staffed mainly by _Muggles_. One wrong word, and we're finished. Azkaban can't have knocked all the sense out of you."

Puddlemere-Podmore chuckled darkly. "Aren't you a darlin, Hestia Jones? Don't worry your pretty mug. Muggles are stupid; I doubt they have two Knuts upstairs to comprehend what we're talkin about. You must have noticed that too, after working in this prison for months."

Mr McGregor bristled at the insinuation that Clarence Securities was a prison; the firm paid generously and was a perfectly decent place to work at. But Vesta (or should he say _Hestia_) appeared to agree with Podmore's description.

"I hope the Order knows what they're doing, stationing us to guard that vault," Hestia grumbled. "Do we even know what's inside 713? They won't let us check. Is it even worth it?"

"The Death Eaters certainly seem to think so," said Podmore. "You-Know-Who isn't someone who would waste precious followers to retrieve somethin worthless."

Death Eaters? They must be talking about those robed intruders, Mr McGregor reasoned. And You-Know-Who was their leader. Awful name for a leader, though, most probably a pseudonym.

Hestia stretched her arms out, in boredom. "Thank Merlin for Nicolas Flamel, then, and his Anti-Spell runes, or else we'd be stewing in dragon dung."

"Flamel? I was wonderin where those runes in Vault 713 came from, the ones protectin the seventh floor, but I thought Dumbledore provided them."

"No, no, Dumbledore said they were from Flamel," said Hestia. "Although, now that you've mentioned it, it'd make more sense if they were from the Headmaster. I guess he's awfully busy these days, too little time to craft runes."

Podmore scratched his stubbled chin, considering Hestia's words. "He did disappear for a few days... before comin back with that blacken'd hand of his, on top of having to deal that sudden ICW conference last week."

"The conference must have been a pile of dragon dung, because he looked mighty peeved when he came back," Hestia said waspishly.

Mr McGregor shook his head. Runes? Headmasters? _Dragon dung?_ The conversation was getting more and more bizarre. Mr McGregor could swear that Nicolas Flamel was a chemist... from the sixteenth century. But anyone would think that these two loonies were talking about him as though he was still alive!

"How long until this job's over, darlin?" said Podmore's voice. "I'm itching to get back into some fighting. Merlin knows I want to Reducto some Death Eater arse."

"September, I think. That's when Harry Potter returns to school, and someone else can take our shift. Who knows what will happen by then..."

The two Hall Monitors moved away to the back of the Lounge, making their voices fainter and muffled. Mr McGregor slumped from the information he had just overheard was still too immense... too outlandish to process. All he had gleaned for certain were that Vesta Smith and Sturg Puddlemere was definitely not who they claimed to be, and that it all concerned Vault 713. Vault 713 wasn't even the firm's most protected vault; like all seventh floor vaults, it was only given medium level fortification. Clarence Securities's highest grade protection, with the state-of-the-art technology, was reserved for the eighth and ninth levels.

Then what was so special about Vault 713? What was inside it?

Mr McGregor decided to investigate the truth. He first kept a greater eye on Smith and Puddlemere, ensuring they were both out of sight, before logging into the company database. Clarence Securities, being a company whose_raison d'etre_ was to protect the stored assets of the customers, had premium encryption system which protected the database and therefore its clients' secrets. But Mr McGregor had worked long enough under Thompson to lift the supervisor's override passwords.

Two minutes later, click. The encryption was breached, and Mr McGregor was reading the private client profile for Vault 713.

"'Vault level security. Four-point system lock, voice recognition system. Client has also instituted a custom security measure of his own choosing'," read Mr McGregor. "'Client: Albus Dumbledore. Sex: Male. Date of Birth: 28/07/25.'"

Mentally noting that Vesta (no, Hestia) had mentioned someone by the name Dumbledore earlier, Mr McGregor scrolled down the page. He clicked the link titled Access History.

The vault had been accessed only twice in the past three months. Once in May, by a "Johann Pfeiffer" and again in June by a "Svetlana Volkova". Both names sounded vaguely European to Mr McGregor. He remembered enough scraps of high school history to recall that Volkova sounded like an old Eastern bloc name, perhaps Ukrainian or Romanian. What was a Soviet woman doing perusing in an English company? The lack of Dumbledore's name in the Access History also troubled Mr McGregor. Most clients visited their vaults at least once; to not check on the vault at all after the initial deposit was very unusual. Unprecedented, almost.

Mr McGregor typed a few more codes into the computer and scrolled down the profile page.

"'Total weight of vault's contents: 60.05 kg. Non-magnetic protection was required, due to the vault contents' interference with electromagnetic statis fields'," Mr McGregor read aloud. Barely sixty kilogram, or a hundred and twelve pounds, in weight – that was much lighter than what most vaults at Clarence Securities carried. 713 mustn't contain very much, then.

"'Number of Hall Monitors assigned to Vault: 3. Vault Manager(s): D. Fenwick, J. Valjean'–"

The sound of approaching footsteps cut in. Careful to leave behind no evidence, Mr McGregor quickly logged off and turned off the computer. Thompson's small, crouched figure entered the room. Mr McGregor gave the bemused Thompson an acknowledging nod and scurried back to his office.  
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* * *

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The next day, Thompson had summoned the Floor Managers for a sudden meeting. Mr McGregor sat himself near the back, away from the door at which "Vesta Smith" stood; he wanted to keep his distance from her and her friend "Puddlemere" for now.

"– So that's why we're implementing another layer of encryption to the company database," said Thompson. He looked around the room. "Any questions?"

No one replied. Thompson nodded and gathered his papers.

"One more thing before we adjourn this meeting. Mike Gellar from the Sixth Floor injured himself yesterday. Slipped on some pastrami in the cafeteria and broke his ankle."

People chuckled at the disgusted exasperation that flitted in Thompson's eyes when he mentioned notoriously clumsy Mike Gellar.

"Therefore, he can't take his normal shift today," grumbled Thompson, arranging his files into a folder. "Someone else will have to go overtime tonight, go patrolling some vaults."

He gave his colleagues a pointed look. "Any takers?"

Once again, no one replied. Some even fidgeted in their seats and twiddled their thumbs, clearly reluctant to volunteer. Mr McGregor sighed. He was a man of great discipline, but also was a great rationalist. If no one volunteered for Gellar's night shift, then Thompson was going to have to do it himself and become very grouchy as a result. And a grouchy Thompson was not what Mr McGregor wanted to deal with first thing in the morning.

So, a little unenthusiastically, Mr McGregor raised his hand. "I'll take Gellar's shift, Thompson. I expect to be rewarded appropriately, though."

Thompson gave Mr McGregor a look of immense gratitude and assented, before dismissing the meeting. Through the jostle of people packing their belongings and marching out the door, Mr McGregor failed to notice "Sturg Puddlemere" and his narrowing eyes.

Later that day, Thompson called Mr McGregor to his office. The room was spacious, filled with bland paintings of bland landscapes and typical certificates from this university and that college; a stiff, grey armchair stood by an office desk covered with papers and a miniature aquarium, which contained some colourless and rather amorphous-looking fish. Thompson stood behind the desk, seemingly at home in what was a dullard's Ikea catalogue. Mr McGregor imagined it said a lot about Thompson's personality.

He motioned for Mr McGregor to sit.

"I'll try and keep this short. At eight in the evening, you'll lock up the sixth and eighth floors. I'm arranging for someone to lock up the ninth floor, but chances are, you'll have to do that too," said Thompson.

"Then, until around eleven, you'll be patrolling the seventh floor. Jezzus n' Mary, I know that's going to be tiring, but you'll have to just buckle down and bear it. After eleven, someone else will relieve you and then you can go home."

With a conciliatory expression, Thompson added: "You won't have to do this alone. I'll assign your Hall Monitors –Vesta Smith and that Puddlemere fellow – to stay behind as well. They're strange company, yes, but better than no company, right?"

"I suppose so," Mr McGregor said half-heartedly. Then, his eyes hardened like polished granite. "Seventh floor? That includes Vault 713, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but I don't see that should bother you so much, Peter," said Thompson, waving his hand. "That vault does have a nasty history, but we always caught those intruders in the end. Nothing to worry about, especially with your stellar reputation!"

How wrong Thompson turned out to be. From the very beginning, the nightshift was a disaster: an askew cog jammed the locking mechanism for the sixth floor, so Mr McGregor had to spend the first ten minutes tugging the damn thing, and then spend the next twenty minutes kicking the cog back into place. This was followed by the amazing, limping Puddlemere (no, _Podmore_) tripping over by Vault 859, and setting off the alarm. Only when Vesta/Hestia slunk behind a corner and did _something_, did the distressing blaring stop. Mr McGregor suspected it involved her peculiar, wooden stick.

"Right, now that we've had _enough_ debacles, I'll get down to business," said Mr McGregor, throwing Podmore a withering look. "Smith, go to the fourth corridor and patrol Vaults 741 to 750. Pod-Puddlemere, you take Vaults 721 to 730. You can do that without test-driving the alarms, I hope?"

Podmore wore a blank expression, much like one of Thompson's lifeless fish. It was almost as if he did not understand parts of Mr McGregor's lingo, like the term "test-driving".

Shaking his head, Mr McGregor dismissed the two Hall Monitors with a wave of his hand. "What are you waiting for? Go!" he said, for good measure. Hestia and Podmore gave each other a strange nod, raced down the corridor, and disappeared from sight.

Mr McGregor walked back to his office, a small room wedged between Vault 737 and Vault 739. Throwing his keys on the desk, he rummaged his drawers and fished out a cigarette. Grasping a vintage lighter with the other hand, he flicked his wrist, lit the cigarette, and puffed. A comfortable sensation settled over him, like a well-worn blanket.

As he smoked, Mr McGregor wondered what his wife was doing right now. It was nearly nine, so Mrs McGregor was most likely preparing for bed. Donning her dressing gown, the one with the patterned purple peonies. Perhaps she was watching the telly with a well-loved cup of Oolong tea, like she did the other day, studying the late news updates. Because there was another freak hurricane in the West Country, she was probably frowning...

A lot of freakish incidents were happening lately. Mrs McGregor was right: these were "strange times" they lived in, there was no denying. But times like these demanded great discipline and control. Mr McGregor had to hold his cool and get to the bottom of this fishy business.

He snuffed out his cigarette and stood up. Suddenly, a peculiar, nervous feeling churned in his stomach. Mr McGregor's Danger Sense, a remnant of his marine training, spiked. Something was amiss. Something felt _wrong_, as if a terrible event was about to unfold.

Mr McGregor already knew where this was going to happen. Pulling a dark cloak over him, he crept to the first corridor by the stairwell and into a small crevice. The combination of the shadowy lighting and the steep bend of the stairwell meant that Mr McGregor was effectively concealed, impossible to spot unless actively searched for. And from this angle, he had a clear view of the fourth vault from the left, the giant, mysterious vault which eluded so many. Vault 713.

Mr McGregor gripped a black walkie-talkie in one hand and small, grey device in the other. One press of the grey device's red button and the police would be alerted immediately of a break-in. He wasn't going to let anything happen, if given a chance. Mr McGregor just _knew_ a break-in attempt was about to occur, like how he knew that "Sturg Puddlemere" and "Vesta Smith" were no regular Joe and Jane. Any minute now, the suspects were going to appear, any minute now. Mr McGregor gritted his teeth.

He was not disappointed. There was a faint _swish_, and a tall, cloaked figure emerged from the stairwell. The figure paused for a moment, to survey the surrounding vaults, and stalked carefully towards Vault 713.

A minute later, a second, shorter figure, also cloaked, arrived. This figure, unlike the first, did not hesitate at all and dashed to its apparent companion.

"What are you doing? Wait! We were meant to neutralise Dumbledore's little lackeys first," said the second figure. It was a woman's voice. The tall, first figure ignored the female and remained silent.

It took all of Mr McGregor's discipline to resist pressing the red button at that moment. The woman and her companion reeked of intruders and thieves, but Mr McGregor first wanted to ascertain that they weren't the helpers Thompson sent to lock the ninth floor. He just needed to eavesdrop a bit more.

The woman threw off the hood of her cloak. Cropped, green hair gleamed in the low light, like washed-up seaweed; a pretty but heavily scarred face glowered at the first figure.

"Jack – Jack of Spades – stop it," said the scarred woman, putting her hand on the first figure's arm. The Jack of Spades threw off the woman.

"I don't have time to deal with Hestia Jones and Sturgis Podmore yet," the figure said. He pulled something long and thin from the confines of his cloak. "I need to do this first. Stand back, Macdonald, unless you have a death wish."

The woman – Macdonald – caught the man's hood and shook it off. The man was young, perhaps only in his twenties, compared to the woman, who was approaching her middle age. He was rather handsome too: pale skin served as a strong contrast to his dark hair; striking grey eyes flashed dangerously under long bangs.

"Get off, Macdonald. Your behaviour is very _unbecoming_, for a Queen of Spades," the man said. His grey eyes flashed again, this time more dangerously. The woman, to her credit, did not lower her fierce gaze. For a moment, Mr McGregor thought the two figures were going to fight, but then, Macdonald released the man's cloak and stepped back, conceding.

The Jack of Spades did not wait another moment. He waved his wooden stick at Vault 713 and muttered something under his breath. The air in the corridor grew hot, and strange sparks exploded outwards. Mr McGregor heard a strange, melodious humming, which washed over him comfortingly, like a lost, Romantic language.

After what seemed like an eternity, the man finally lowered his stick. The humming and sparks stopped, and the corridor returned to normal. The woman drew out her own stick – shorter than the man's and made of a lighter, softer wood – and cried, "_Orchideous!_"

It took all of Mr McGregor's famed self-discipline not to choke in shock when a garish bouquet of freesias burst out from the woman's stick.

The woman took the flowers in her other hand, waved her wooden stick again, and said, "_Salvio Resnovae_".

An odd, cool wave blossomed out of the stick. By now, Mr McGregor was agitatedly pressing the red button of the grey device. What he was seeing was far from ordinary; Thompson, boring old Thompson, wouldn't dare send such..._monstrosities_.

"Well, it appears our magic is working now. Congratulations, twerp. You've done the impossible and broke the Anti-Spell runes of one of the greatest wizards in known history," Macdonald said. She chucked the freesias at the Jack of Spades, who lazily flicked his stick.

Instantly, the bouquet of flowers vanished in mid-air.

"It helps when you're as gifted and powerful as I am," the man said. Macdonald gave him a scornful sneer, which he ignored. "Not that I doubt you could do what I just did. You too would have probably broken Flamel's runes if you had a decade or two to spare – "

"As much as your youthful flattery sends flutters in my aged heart, we have a job to finish. What you did, in your arrogant impatience, was undeniably risky. If Dumbledore's lackeys were on this floor, or if you had been a minute slower in your impertinent disregard of rules and _plans_, we would be dead by now."

Macdonald gave her companion a gimlet gaze. "Still, your idiocy and, I suppose, _talent_ has saved us some time. We first need to cripple the threat that Jones and Podmore pose."

"And the prize for stating the obvious goes to Miss Mary Macdonald. Well done, I'd say," the cloaked man said breezily. He brandished his stick and muttered a few more nonsensical words. Sinister, blue glints emerged and leapt into the walls.

"Don't test me, twerp. I'm still your superior on this mission, regardless of your rune-breaking miracles," hissed Macdonald. From her stick, she viciously sent a jet of red light at the man, who idly flicked his wrist. A fat, ugly canary materialised, swallowed the beam, and exploded in a cascade of yellow feathers.

"Yet it wasn't you, but me who was tasked with infiltrating this security firm incognito," the man said. His striking grey eyes glimmered. "Do I have to brag again how it's only on my information that we're not failing this mission, like the Death Eaters have so spectacularly done before us?"

Macdonald grimaced. She bowed her head slightly, acknowledging her companion's words, albeit grudgingly. "Regardless, we still must neutralise Podmore and Jones. It'd be best not to leave any traces behind. Any ideas,_Jack?_"

The Jack of Spades – "Jack" – nodded. "A Compulsion Charm, with some Disillusionment and a Bedazzling Hex should do the trick. I'll do it, my Queen of Spades, if you'd like."

"Compello, Dissimulso, and Astraere. Sounds like an ambush. Knowing you, you'd Stun them once you've trapped them? You are too soft."

"We're not Death Eaters, Macdonald, no need to be heavy-handed and violent," Jack said. His grey eyes darkened. "Although some of what we do as a corporation can be considered as Dark as Death Eater raids. We collect certain_objects_ and hunt down people who –"

"We are not having this conversation again. What we do is completely different to the havoc those Death Eaters get up to every fortnight," snapped Macdonald, the Queen of Spades. "For one thing, the Death Eaters are just a renegade terrorist group, while we are a government-sponsored body –"

Jack snorted. "Murder is murder, whatever terms you use to sugarcoat it."

"Murder is preferable to the alternative, should we not do our job. Stop trying to play the saint. You knew what we were dealing with when you signed-up."

Mr McGregor had to take a few calming breaths. What he was hearing made his toes curl. Magic, government corporations, murderers – Mr McGregor did not knew which rabbit hole he had fallen through, but he knew it had landed him somewhere dark and terrible. This probably wasn't what Thompson was envisaging when he was offering Gellar's nightshift. Mr McGregor tightened his grip around the grey device. What was taking the police so long? Why weren't they here yet?

The Jack of Spades glared at Macdonald, and then softened. He sighed.

"You're right, Macdonald. This pot is calling the kettle black, huh? I guess I've always been a hypocrite. Anyway,_Dissimulso_."

There was a faint ripple, and the cloaked man melted into the background. Mr McGregor had to squint to even recall that the Jack of Spades stood there. A few low footsteps indicated that the concealed man was already moving down the hall, without his friend. Macdonald scowled, as though she were exasperated with her ally. Shaking her head, she pointed her stick at herself.

"That scummy little twerp. _Astraere_," she said.

And Macdonald glowed in a bedazzling, purple light, which seemed to effervesce. A second later, the light died down, and Macdonald was nowhere to be seen. However, Mr McGregor spotted a slight wrinkle on the left wall which crept resolutely down the corridor. He shook and gripped the grey device. By now, he was certain the police would have arrived – had they even received his distress call. Those intruders – those _freaks_ – had done something to jam the honing signal. Perhaps the green-haired wench did it when she was waving her stick around, after conjuring those flowers. It was all so wrong, so wrong...

Mr McGregor froze. Two footsteps, approaching. Accompanied by whispers of a conversation. A very deep conversation, it seemed, between two people Mr McGregor trusted the least. He pressed himself more securely into his hidden crevice.

" – I'm tellin you, Hestia Jones, that Muggle is onto us. McCrealy – McGrisham – whatever his name is, he suspects somethin, I'm sure!"

Podmore's features were pinched with anxiety. His orange Hall Monitor uniform was in disarray; Mr McGregor could see a wooden stick poking out from the trousers.

His escort, Hestia Jones, rolled her eyes. "It's _McGregor_, Sturgis. Not McGrisham. And there's nothing to worry about; we've been careful in covering our tracks. Didn't you yourself say that Muggles are stupid and that they don't even have two Knuts upstairs to comprehend our world?"

At the mention of his name, Mr McGregor whimpered and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was starting to comprehend the world which Hestia and Podmore came from. But he'd trade it all away – and more – to be safe at home with his wife, so blissfully unaware...

"I was wrong, then. That McGregor fellow knows what we're up to. He _knows_, I'm sayin, he knows about Vault 713 and Dumbledore and the danger – "

"Azkaban has gotten to you, Podmore. Get a grip, you sound delusional," Hestia said disdainfully.

Podmore growled, though he did not appear to repudiate Hestia's statement.

"Are you sure Flamel's Anti-Spell runes are infallible? This corridor feels _different_ from usual," Podmore said. "Yet it should be spelled to stop all magic, as it's always done."

Hestia's expression darkened. "Are you doubting Albus Dumbledore's words?"

"'Course not. But Hestia, the man's is gettin any younger. Haven't you heard about his sister Ariana, and what about the whole caboozle over the Mirror of Erised – "

There was a muted sound, like a small footstep toward them. Hestia instantly whipped out a strange, wooden stick from her uniform. Podmore, noticing her wariness, fished out his own stick. The two began surveying the local area. Hestia frantically pointed her stick all around her, suspicious and guarded like a wartime veteran. Her eyes widened as she leapt out of the way.

A voice shouted: "_Stupefy!_"

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Beams of red light crashed against the walls. Podmore lunged aside.

"We're being effin ambushed!" he shouted, wildly pointing his stick at the darkness. "_REDUCTO!_"

The bolts surrounding Vault 717 blasted outwards in a shower of metal. Mr McGregor's great self-discipline only barely stopped his scream. Trembling with fear, Mr McGregor seized the walkie-talkie and bolted to the stairwell.

"_Deprimo! Reducto!_"

"_PROTEGO! PROTEGO TOTALUM!_ Hestia, what's goin on? Hestia, answer me! _PUNICEA!_"

Ominous, violet sparks deflected on a silvery shield. The ceiling right of Vault 719 crumpled in a burst of purple light.

"_Stupefy! Confringo!_"

"_Protego!_ Podmore, I don't know! W-Where are these spells coming from? What, no! Podmore, they're Disillusioned!_Homenum Revelio!_"

A sapphire light streamed from Hestia's stick and struck what appeared to be the furnishings of Vault 711. Instantly, a young, grey-eyed man – the Jack of Spades – materialised. He grinned.

"_Stupefy!_" he yelled, shooting a red beam at the surprised Hestia. The rosy-cheeked Hall Monitor gasped, as though she was drenched in cold water, and collapsed as the beam hit her.

Meanwhile, Podmore dodged a volley of sharpened rocks. As he contorted out of the way, a sharp shard grazed his knee. He winced, but pointed his stick at the crevice between Vaults 713 and 715, the source of the Debris Spell.

"_HOMENUM REVELIO!_" Podmore bellowed. A blue beam shot, like an arrow, through the floating rocks and into the crevice, revealing the green-haired MacDonald.

Podmore's success was short-lived, though. As soon as Macdonald was forcibly revealed, she whispered something under her breath, and the iron bolts of Vault 714 shook terribly, before flinging off. A second later, they gleamed in a brilliant white and transfigured into long, metal chords.

The cords whipped at Podmore, who redirected them with a silvery shield, but not for long.

Two more seconds passed: an iron band wrapped around Podmore, binding him. A nonverbal Stupefy from Macdonald, and the thatch-haired man crumpled, defeated.

Fear jolting down his cold spine, Mr McGregor feverishly clutched at his walkie-talkie.

"Anyone, _anyone_, please help me," he whispered into the handheld. "I'm on the seventh floor and my life is in danger –"

"That was some pretty Transfiguration there, Macdonald," a male voice said. The Jack of Spades sauntered towards Macdonald, while levitating the unconscious Hestia Jones. He dropped the body near Podmore's prone form.

"You said that we'd only need to Stun them, yet I just had to duel Podmore into submission," snapped Macdonald. She grinned and bared her sharpest teeth. "Why was that? Can it be that the great Jack of Spades was wrong?"

Jack shrugged. "They were more alert than I thought. Doesn't matter, though. Your skill as the Queen of Spades was more than enough to deal with the repercussions."

He flicked his stick at the two defeated opponents. The metal ropes binding Podmore loosened and extended, before binding Hestia as well.

"I just have one more thing to do before we break into Vault 713 and take what we came for," said the Jack of Spades.

He walked slowly, but purposefully, towards the stairwell in which Mr McGregor stood. The terrified Floor Manager whispered into the walkie-talkie again and tried to dash down the stairs, but an unknown force stopped him.

The Jack of Spades stood in front of him and smiled, almost sympathetically.

"That walkie-talkie isn't going to work. My friend's spell made sure of it," he said gently. Mr McGregor looked fearfully at the younger man.

"I can't let you get away; you've seen too much. I promise this won't hurt at all. I don't like hurting people, when I can help it," the man said, ignoring Macdonald's scornful looks.

Then, with a sad smile, he pointed his stick at Mr McGregor.

"_Obliviate!_" 

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-X-X-X-

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**A/N:** Thanks to the astute folks at DLP, this chapter has been edited as of 28/01/11


	2. Chapter Two: A Grim Beginning

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or anything you can recognise from the books. The series belongs to J.K. Rowling and the people who publish the books and produce the movies.

**A/N:** Dumbledore's letter to Harry is originally from HBP (credit goes to Jo Rowling); it is here, in this chapter, very slightly tweaked to reflect the changes already wrought in the canonverse by the events in Chapter One.

Still looking for a beta-reader. Once again, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome!

* * *

**– CHAPTER TWO –**

_A Grim Beginning_

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-X-X-X-

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In Little Whinging, behind a row of blockish, white houses and pedicured, green lawns, there was a street most ordinary and mundane. This street, Privet Drive, contained only those with spotless reputations: every morning, the men of Privet Drive would drive their Sunday-washed cars off to work, and the women of Privet Drive would prepare their breakfasts. Several slices of crisp bacon (four minutes on each side), with occasional pale, scrambled eggs. Every two days, sausages and toast would appear, accompanied by an assortment of store-bought jams and marmalades. Orange juice was optional, while coffee was not.

These breakfasts would be seized by the varying children of Privet Drive, who would brush their teeth, pack their backpacks, and kiss their mothers good-bye. Then, school: Stonewall High, Magnolia Elementary, Smeltings Grammar, Devisham Preparatory. This was the routine for all inhabitants of Privet Drive. No freaky business, nothing out of the ordinary for them, thank you very much.

Except for one family, and their most curious nephew. Miles away from the sealed vaults of Clarence Securities, at the dawn of a mild Tuesday morning, a bespectacled, teenage boy was frying bacon in the spotless kitchen of No. 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys, the very ordinary and boorish owners of No. 4, and the boy's only living family, weren't even awake yet.

This boy, Harry Potter, was a highly unusual boy, most assuredly by Privet Drive's standards. For the first ten years of his life, he had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs and make breakfast, instead of his Aunt Petunia. He had never kissed his mother goodbye before going to school; in fact, Harry had neither been kissed by _anyone_ before going to school, nor been kissed by his mother, in his living memory.

Moreover, Harry did not go to Stonewall High or Smeltings Grammar or any other school in the area. No, no, Harry Potter went to a _special_ boarding school in the north, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because he was a wizard.

Not just any wizard either; he was the only one to have faced the Killing Curse, from the Dark wizard Voldemort who killed Harry's parents, and survived. 'The Boy-Who-Lived', other witches and wizards called Harry. A walking miracle, surely something special and not the norm for Privet Drive.

Harry flipped the bacon in the frying pan. He really didn't have to make breakfast, at least not only more. Mad-Eye Moody's threat to the Dursleys ended all the chores and slave labour Harry once had to do.

But cooking calmed him, kept his mind off darker matters he didn't wish to dwell on. Besides, he couldn't sleep.

The first member of the Dursley household groggily entered the kitchen.

"Morning, Petunia, what are you doing up so early – _you!_" choked Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, when he saw Harry in the kitchen.

"Good morning to you too, Uncle Vernon," Harry said brightly. "Bacon?"

Vernon staggered back, clearly surprised at seeing his nephew making breakfast, a chore which Harry had not performed for the better part of five years. The man then narrowed his beady eyes in suspicion, and his cheeks tinted dark-puce, like an uncooked blood pudding, as he began to form dark, untrue conjectures.

"_What the ruddy hell are you doing in our kitchen? I told you, I won't stand any funny business –_ "

Harry grimaced at the spittle that was egressing from his uncle's beefy, quaking face. The others in the house must be waking now, although it was only dawn; Uncle Vernon's roaring would have knocked all the sleep out of them.

"No need to be suspicious, I'm just making breakfast," said Harry. He wiped the spit off his glasses. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it when I was ten, I remember."

For good measure, Harry grabbed a cream-coloured plate and plopped two, delicious pieces of bacon on it. He pushed it towards the still shaking Uncle Vernon.

"Here," Harry said calmly. "Eat it while it's still hot. I'll even get you some coffee, if you'd like."

Catching whiffs of the mouth-watering bacon, Uncle Vernon began to relax. His face lost its angry, puce colour. He eagerly seized the plate, reminding Harry of a rabid gorilla he once saw on television.

"I want scrambled eggs with this, Boy," Uncle Vernon said, as he sat down at the kitchen table. "And, for my coffee, I want black with – "

" – Two sugars, yes, I know," Harry muttered. There was a soft hiss as he added another slice of bacon to the pan. "Like I'd ever forget what I had to do for ten years of my life."

When Harry was grabbing eggs from the fridge, a bony woman with twice the usual amount of neck drifted into the kitchen. She gasped and clutched at her lilac dressing gown.

"Relax, Petunia. The boy's just practising his old routine, from the old days when he still knew what was best for him," Uncle Vernon said. He shovelled a piece of bacon into his mouth; grease clung to his bushy moustache.

Petunia Dursley pursed her lips disdainfully. "I still don't trust him with my kitchen, not after the pudding incident with the Masons."

Harry smiled as he thought about Dobby the house-elf, who had dropped Aunt Petunia's pudding on Mrs Mason. The kind but misguided elf had been trying to deter Harry from returning to Hogwarts for his own safety, because a secret chamber underneath the girls' bathroom was to be reopened. Harry still went back to Hogwarts anyway, and defeated the giant, fifty-foot snake which resided in the said chamber.

Hogwarts was his only home, more of a home than Privet Drive ever was. That was where he met all his friends – his best friend, Ron Weasley, the smart Hermione Granger, even the gamekeeper Hagrid, the first friend he ever had. Harry couldn't dare abandon it.

Harry swirled the frying pan and mixed the eggs, watching them coagulate into a delicious, pale yellow. Turning to Aunt Petunia, who was still wary, he placed a plate of fried bacon.

"I refuse to eat what you've made. I've seen what your kind can do. Lily and that horrible boy used to talk all the time about all the different kinds of _poisons_," said Aunt Petunia, sneering at her plate.

"What's there to say that you didn't slip us one of your vile potions? Freaky Lily probably did so all the time. It's no surprise that her freakishness came back to haunt her in the end, and got her blown up –"

Harry dropped a plate of scrambled eggs. Slowly, he turned to his frozen aunt and pulled himself to his full height. He knew he must have looked imposing at that moment: with his recent growth spurt, he was finally as tall as the near-sixteen year-old he was, and leaned over Aunt Petunia; his dark hair was unruly and stuck at the back, giving him a dangerous edge. And, even though he was still on the skinny side, Harry had gained some muscle lately. All of this must have added up to an image of a young but very capable boy.

He narrowed his startling green eyes, the feature which perturbed Aunt Petunia the most. The eyes of his mother, Lily.

"Aunt Petunia, you can insult me all you want, and make me do all the chores in the world," Harry intoned. He clutched his fists tightly, until a faint scar on his right hand became visible: _I must not tell lies._

"But if you ever insult my parents again, _especially_ my mother, I will hurt you," Harry said coldly.

Uncle Vernon lunged and grabbed Harry's neck with his sausage-like fingers. "Don't talk to Petunia that way, boy! We know about your world, and you can't do magic outside of school – "

Even through the choking pain around his neck, Harry managed to laugh. He stomped on Uncle Vernon's foot. The bulging man howled and released his nephew.

"Uncle Vernon, I don't need _magic_ to hurt you," Harry wheezed. His pale face twisted into a dark, terrible expression, which was rather sad, considering his young age.

"You have no idea what I've been through. I can make your worst nightmares seem like kids' daydreams. _Don't_ test me."

Harry grabbed Uncle Vernon's coffee, viciously added two sugar cubes, and stirred. He thrust the coffee mug and a plate of bacon onto the kitchen table.

He said to the stunned Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, "Eat your food. I'll clean up the mess on the floor and make another plate of eggs."

And he turned around and grabbed a brush and dustpan from the mantel place, to clean the floor. As Harry picked up the biggest shards of egg-strewn porcelain, he heard a shuffling behind him. A chair was being pulled, and someone was sitting down to eat. Aunt Petunia. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed her pushing some slithers of bacon into her horsey mouth.

Harry binned the last of the broken plate, wishing at that moment that he could use his wand. A simple _Reparo_would have avoided the messy task of picking up food-splattered glass. But his friend Hermione always said that_"wizards have to learn to do some things the Muggle way, Harry; magic isn't the solution to everything"_.

Whatever that meant.

Footsteps were heard, and there was a yawn at the kitchen entrance. A large, blond boy traipsed into the kitchen. He goggled at Harry, who was aggressively scrambling eggs in a frying pan, and at his parents, who were eating in odd silence.

"What's going on, Mum? Why is Harry making breakfast? He hasn't done that in ages," said Dudley, Harry's cousin.

Aunt Petunia shot Dudley a bitter look. "Just eat your bacon, Duddikins."

Dudley gaped, making his huge head look like that of a masticating killer-whale. He peered at Harry and at his parents again, shocked at this unusual silence and lack of "Harry Mocking". After Uncle Vernon gave him an impatient snarl, Dudley sighed.

He pulled himself a chair and began shovelling bacon onto his plate. While Dudley inhaled his food, Harry scrapped the new scrambled eggs off the frying pan, placed them next to Uncle Vernon, and sat down at the table. He ignored the glares from Aunt Petunia, who sat beside him.

The four of them ate breakfast in awkward silence. Occasionally, someone would ask to pass the orange juice or the morning paper, but other than that, no one spoke; there was only the sound of stilted chewing (or in Dudley's case, fervid inhaling), forks scraping plates, and quiet breathing.

Harry was beginning to prefer this, though, to the usual cacophony of Dursley mornings. At least Uncle Vernon wasn't calling him "worthless" every five minutes, and Aunt Petunia wasn't upsetting his stomach by simpering about "my grown-up Diddydum" and "Duddikins's charming new girlfriend".

This temporary reprieve didn't last long, however. When Aunt Petunia was pouring herself some orange juice, a plume of orange fire suddenly burst over the dining table, and a large, scarlet bird with golden feathers and tunnelling, sentient eyes materialised. Aunt Petunia dropped the juice carton with a scream.

"Fawkes!" Harry said happily, grinning at the red phoenix. "What are you doing here? Did Dumbledore send you?"

The bird nodded and lifted one of his legs. There, in the right talon, Fawkes gripped a tight, pastel scroll. Harry took the scroll and unravelled it, immediately recognising the thin, slanted writing within.

Ignoring the outraged shouts from his relatives, Harry read the letter:

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_Dear Harry,_

_If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to The Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays._

_If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to The Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you._

_Kindly send your answer with Fawkes. Hoping to see you this Friday,_

_I am yours, most sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

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Harry looked up from the parchment. With a speed only he could possess from his Quidditch training as Gryffindor Seeker, Harry snatched a ballpoint pen and a bit of blank paper from the living room. He quickly scribbled something down on the paper:

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_Professor Dumbledore,_

_I'm always ready to go to The Burrow. I'll try my best to help you with your task along the way, though I don't know what exactly you expect me to do._

_I haven't had any "nightmares" since last week. I guess he's happy right now._

_Harry_

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"Here, Fawkes," Harry said, as he folded his letter. He stroked the phoenix's head and attached the letter to the right talon. "Make sure Professor Dumbledore gets this as soon as possible, okay?"

The phoenix trilled. After Harry petted his head once more, Fawkes unfolded his brilliant wings, soared up to the kitchen rafters, and disappeared in a burst of flame. Uncle Vernon choked again at this "freakish" sight.

The Dursleys stood in blank silence, agape and blinking at the spot where Fawkes had just disappeared. Then, Uncle Vernon recovered from the shock of witnessing a self-immolating phoenix and snarled at Harry.

"Boy, you promised no freakiness and then, that-that overgrown turkey just appears on our table!" yelled Uncle Vernon. His moustache bristling, he grabbed Harry with one of his enormous hands. "Care to explain this?_ Look at me when I talk!_"

"I have nothing to explain to you, Uncle," said Harry, his green eyes gleaming. He batted away his sputtering uncle and placed the empty plates in the sink. Then, without another word, he waltzed up the stairs to bedroom.

Before he closed the door, he heard the racketing bellows from downstairs: "I am a respectable, stand-out citizen; I don't deserve this freaky business, I'm a good person – Boy, you are good for nothing, good for _nothing!_"

"If respectable citizens lock children in cupboards and inhale their food, you're definitely the most "respectable" one of us all, Uncle Vernon," Harry mumbled.

Shaking his head, Harry tried to focus on Dumbledore's letter. Harry was _very_ glad that he would meet the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts earlier than expected, Dumbledore was one of his favourite teachers, but he couldn't help but feel a little troubled. It was odd that the Headmaster himself was escorting him to the Burrow, instead of Tonks, Lupin, or another member of the Advance Guard; Harry thought that Professor Dumbledore had more important things to do, especially since Voldemort was getting more and more restless...

Shouldn't Dumbledore be personally leading the charge against the Death Eaters, the giants, and Voldemort's other servants, instead of retrieving a mere schoolboy?

Also, the fact he sent Fawkes instead of a standard owl was unusual; if Harry remembered it correctly, Fawkes was only used as a messenger in emergencies and other cases of extreme urgency. The phoenix ferried crucial intelligence to and from Dumbledore's Anti-Voldemort organisation, the Order of the Phoenix. But Dumbledore used Fawkes for this? A simple notification? To a student?

Harry fished out a savoury treat from his trunk and gave it to Hedwig. After nipping his fingers affectionately, the snowy owl swallowed the treat and hooted. Recognising that Hedwig was probably feeling a bit stifled, Harry unlocked the iron-wire cage and freed his owl.

"Hedwig, you should fly around the neighbourhood a bit, get some fresh air," Harry said to the owl.

He opened and gestured at the bedroom window, smiling sadly. "You look like you need some flying. Sorry I haven't been the most attentive lately. Had a lot on my mind."

Hedwig ruffled her feathers, as though she accepted Harry's words. Giving Harry one more friendly nip, she then spread her wings and flew into the sky, away from Privet Drive.

As Hedwig disappeared from the windowsill, Harry rummaged his Hogwarts trunk. Pulling out his Fifth-Year Transfiguration textbook, and the Holly wand from under the floorboards, he sat himself at the edge of his bed. Here, he had a decent view of the window and the front lawn; Harry always liked to think of the outdoors when he studied. It reminded him of Quidditch, his favourite sport.

"'Inanimate to animate Transfiguration is more energy-consuming and time-consuming than the reverse, because of the lifeforce one must imbue into the object'," read Harry, turning the dusty pages.

"'The incantations for many spells of this category involve the suffix '-fors', as demonstrated in the incantation for Avian Transfiguration Spell – 'Avifors'."

Harry yawned. He looked up from the textbook and found his mind drifting away from Transfiguring birds and back to the topic of Dumbledore. Perhaps Dumbledore was paying so much attention to him because of the events at the Department of Mysteries. Only last month did Harry and his five of his friends did what many adults failed to do and faced Voldemort and his Death Eaters, barely escaping with their lives. Self-loathing took that moment to pierce Harry, like a sharp rapier.

It was his fault that his friends – Hermione, Ron, and the others – were hurt as they were. Harry could still remember the way Hermione collapsed like a discarded, rag doll under Dolohov's purple spell, the blood gurgling from Ron's mouth as he laughed manically...

If he had just listened to Hermione that Voldemort was tricking him, that those visions in his minds weren't real, then none of his friends would have gotten hurt and, Harry swallowed, he wouldn't have died.

Harry threw one of his nearby books – _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ – at the wall. All of this was because of that stupid prophecy, the jabbering of that half-drunk fraud, Trelawney. _'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... neither can live while the other survives'_. In short terms, he had to destroy Voldemort with some previously unforeseen power; he was the 'Chosen One', the saviour of the magical world.

That was why Dumbledore had sent Fawkes, that was why Dumbledore was being extra cautious with him. Maybe something else happened as well, but the prophecy had to be the main reason.

Harry rubbed his lightning-bolt scar. He certainly didn't _feel_ like a Chosen One or Dark Lord Vanquisher; what he saw in the mirror was a scrawny teenager with decent grades, who was completely out of his depths. Definitely not dashing messiah-material.

"I'm not ready, I'm not ready to be a hero," said Harry, gripping his wand tightly.

He noted wryly that he wasn't even ready to enter NEWT-level Potions, if his OWL results – and Professor Snape – would allow him.

As Harry absentmindedly flipped through his Transfiguration book, from this corner of the bed, he noticed something odd in the window. A strange, silvery light, not unlike the light often produced by Patronus Charms, seemed to be clinging outside. Curious, he hopped off the bed, edged towards the wooden sill, and peered out at the Dursleys' front lawn.

Harry froze and dropped the Transfiguration textbook.

On the front yard of No. 4 Privet Drive stood a large, silvery dog, the source of the mysterious light.

The dog, great and hulking, loped between Aunt Petunia's wilting hydrangeas, yet did not leave any paw prints behind in the soil. Even through the orange glow of dawn, which obscured some of the silver light, Harry could see the dog's wide, gleaming eyes; they were glinting with mischief and glee, as though they had witnessed a particularly good prank.

"The Grim. Padfoot – _Sirius_," whispered Harry.

Memories of Sirius Black, his godfather, flickered through Harry's mind: Sirius promising to give Harry a home after subduing Pettigrew; Sirius grinning at Harry in the cave during the Triwizard tournament; Sirius showing Harry the Black Tapestry at Grimmauld Place; Sirius falling through the Veil of Death, surprise drawn lankly across his dying face...

Wiping his eyes, Harry checked the window again. The silvery Grim still stood there, panting next to a row of rose thorns.

However, it began to turn around, as if to leave Privet Drive.

As though in a trance, Harry stood up from the bed. His heart pounded furiously, like a beating drum, as he grabbed his wand and ran out of his bedroom, down the stairs two at a time, and out of the front door. He dimly registered Aunt Petunia shrieking at him, asking where he was going at dawn, but he didn't care; everything in his mind was now focussed on the silvery dog, the dog that was Padfoot.

Padfoot wagged its tail and gambolled down Privet Drive, stepping over the lawn-beds with silvery, misty paws. His wand-hand shaking with emotion, Harry followed. Dumbledore always said that it was impossible to raise the dead, but everyone, even Dumbledore, was bound to be wrong sometimes. Was it possible, Harry considered, possible that Sirius wasn't really dead?

Reaching the end of Privet Drive, Padfoot turned left at a house with lofty rafters. His brightness shone against the pavement, which grew rougher and coarser when Padfoot crossed Wisteria Walk. An uneasy hope flushed in Harry's heart; only Sirius would wag his tail like that, in such an untroubled, outrageous manner. Moreover, Patronuses, such as this silver dog, were stalwarts of purer, good magic, nothing Dark.

It was in his disposition to trust this dog, thought Harry in a daze, to trust Padfoot.

Padfoot frisked along the road, through the dimming street-lamps, and panted at Harry, who staggered after him. The dog paused, and his soulful, glassy eyes met Harry's green ones, which widened in pain. Those eyes were almost sentient in their mirth, so very much like Sirius's.

"Padfoot," Harry said, trembling. "Please wait. I – I have so much to say. Please, wait."

The dog gave a soundless bark and darted into the narrow alleyway which joined Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. Harry ran in close pursuit. This was where Harry first met Sirius and, later, where he saved Dudley from Umbridge's Dementors. Many, many memories. Padfoot's moon-like aura glinted from the other end of the alley, almost mockingly.

"Stop, Padfoot, just let me talk to you," panted Harry, stumbling forward.

The sun was rising more rapidly now, spraying the shadowed streets with a golden glow; the strengthening sunbeams made Padfoot's silvery figure harder to see, but Harry didn't give up. Soon, Padfoot would stop, and its owner would speak. Harry would be able to ask his questions and maybe, he imagined with choked excitement, talk to Sirius... explain how sorry he was, for everything.

When Harry reached the end of the cramped alleyway, he searched desperately for Padfoot's silvery figure. Relief flooded him when he spied the massive, moon-light dog traipsing down Magnolia Road, towards the Park. From his spot, he could hear the soft, grumble of cars from Begonia Avenue; Harry was close to the playground with the swing-sets, which he was almost sure was Padfoot's destination.

Harry's heart, emboldened by his trust for the silver Grim, was now bursting with bright anticipation. He sprinted after Padfoot. He could almost hear Sirius's loud, barking laughter, almost see his wide smirk, telling him that his death was all just an elaborate prank and a funny hoax.

Eventually, Padfoot came to a stop. The shimmering dog stepped between the swings of the Park's playground and wagged his tail. Then, as Harry vaulted over the park gates, the dog gave him one last, silent bark, a gesture uncannily like Sirius's wracking laughter, and disappeared. Heart hammering against his chest, Harry rushed to the playground, apologies and questions flitting on his tongue's edge, and grappled at the swings.

But it was too late; the Patronus was already gone. And Sirius was nowhere to be seen.

Disappointment cleaved Harry in half, like an axe from a horror movie. His hopes that he could finally get to apologise and ask Sirius those many unanswered questions – once again, futile. He'd never know whether Sirius had a girlfriend, or if he had a favourite colour, or if he liked playing Beater or Keeper or even Quidditch itself, or –

Half-blind with shock, he stumbled onto one of the swings.

"'He won't come back, Harry', 'it is impossible to raise the dead, Harry', 'I'm sorry, he's gone on, Harry' – I never listen to anyone, do I?" Harry placed his head in his hands. His throat was parched and dry for some reason; he was finding it hard to breathe.

"I never listen... and look what that gets me. Everyone around me, hurt or dead. DEAD. DEAD, BECAUSE OF ME!"

A hot wave of air pulsed outwards, stripping the nearby maple tree and the adjacent, aged oak of their leaves; the metal-bound, slippery slide shaped like an Emperor penguin crumpled slightly, as though it had just been hit by a heavy mallet. His magic was acting up again, as it did when he was upset. Anger mingled with self-disgust and reeled in Harry's stomach, like a vicious maelstrom.

"I let this happen to me," Harry muttered to himself. "I let myself be misled by Voldemort, then by Kreacher, and now by a Patronus. This can't keep on happening, I have to do something –"

Harry wiped his face and took a few calming breaths. Although his experiences with Occlumency were far from pleasant, he even tried Snape's mind-clearing exercises. He thought about Quidditch and his Firebolt, soaring high above the Hogwarts grounds, the crisp wind in his hair and nothing but the sound of flying in his ears. Free, with no boundaries or prophecies to be fulfilled...

Slowly, the horrible weight on Harry's heart lifted, and the memories of Sirius slithered back into the recesses of his mind, repressed once again.

Harry closed his eyes and gripped his wand. He had honestly thought that he was finished mourning for Sirius, that he wouldn't lose his composure like this again; he was nearly sixteen, not six. The shock of seeing the Padfoot Patronus and gaining a modicum of hope, only to be proven wrong, had brought back the worst memories, though. If Hermione were here, she'd admonish him for exploding like that...

A cold chill fell over Harry; something felt wrong – and raw, like danger. The playground became muted, and the thin breeze which was caressing the swing sets died. Golden wisps from the breaking dawn suddenly grew dull against the Penguin Slide and the rest of the play equipment, as though colour had been sapped from the playground. It was as if the park and everything within it – including Harry – had been sealed off from the outside world.

Harry gritted his teeth. Could it be that he had stepped into a Death Eater trap? That he had been hoodwinked by Voldemort again? He whipped out his wand and cautiously scanned the area.

"I knew you'd be here," called out a voice.

Harry wheeled around and attempted to find the source of the voice, but an unknown force – perhaps a spell – made it nearly impossible.

"The Queen of Spades didn't believe that you'd be foolish enough to follow her Patronus," continued the voice. _A guy,_ Harry decided, _definitely a guy_.

"But we both know that we're weak-hearted. You're not the hero who the Wizarding World needs; you're just a kid."

"Who are you?" Harry shouted, brandishing his wand. "Are you a Death Eater? One of Voldemort's followers? Show yourself, you coward!"

There was a faint ripple, as though one was pulling the cover off a portrait, and a cloaked man materialised beside the swing set. He threw back his hood, and Harry reeled back: the newcomer was older than him, around Tonks's age, and was pale under his fringe of thick, black hair. It was the eyes which shocked Harry, though; they were wide, and a striking grey. Just like Sirius's.

"Funny that, you calling me a coward. I'm definitely going to remember that one," said the man. Harry noticed that he was fairly handsome, and carried himself with a laidback, experienced gait. A strange badge, inscribed with a black Spade and the letter **_J_**, gleamed on his cloak.

"Who are you?" Harry repeated, narrowing his eyes.

Muttering under his breath, the man pulled out his wand, a long stick made of a strange, hardy wood, and waved it. A bouquet of exquisite lilies, their petals pure-white and radiant, blossomed out of the wand.

"In memory of your mother," the man said, before Vanishing the bouquet. "I doubt that a Death Eater could produce something as untainted and innocent as that. Remember Harry, that not everything is what it seems. There's always more than what meets the eye."

Then, without warning, the man pointed his wand at Harry and cried, "_Stupefy!_"

Harry flung himself sideways, as a red beam soared over his shoulder. He jumped under the Penguin Slide, barely dodging another Stunning Spell.

"What do you want?" Harry shouted. When the Slide groaned ominously under a Cutting Curse, he aimed his wand at the man and yelled, "_Expelliarmus!_"

The man rolled harmlessly out of the way. He saluted Harry, much like one of those parading soldiers in the Edinburgh Tattoo.

Realising that he was being toyed with, Harry growled and shouted again: "_Expelliarmus!_"

This time, the man flicked his wand; an iridescent shield emerged and deflected the jet of red light with a hollow clang.

"Don't rely on the Disarming Charm so much, Harry. You want to use other spells too," the man said brightly, as if they were discussing the weather. "How about I give you one of my names, when you perform a more commendable feat of magic?"

The man fired two more spells at Harry. The first was another Cutting Curse, which the Penguin Slide weathered through intact, but the second – a sinister jet of violet light – was far more potent. The Slide creaked and, with a terrible boom, exploded in a squall of metal.

Following his instincts, Harry hastily immobilised the falling debris with a Freezing Charm, but some small shards managed to pass through, cutting his left knee. Pain shot through Harry.

Wincing, he pointed his wand at the metal fragments caging him.

"_Depulso,_" he whispered. With a clank, the remains of the Penguin Slide hurled off him, banished by magic.

"Great work, Harry," said Harry's opponent, giving him a thumbs up. "But is it that puny spellwork all you've got?"

"I'm not finished yet," Harry said. He aimed his wand at the iron shards surrounding him. "I'll show you puny."

He tried to remember the Transfiguration textbook he read earlier. _Intent drives magic, Mr Potter,_ instructed Professor McGonagall's voice from his Fifth year. _The greater the willpower and intent, the stronger the spellwork._

"_AVIFORS!_" Harry bellowed, channelling his magic and intent into the metal debris. To his great relief, the shards and fragments soared upwards and twisted into large, black birds. He concentrated on the birds and tried to memorise their shapes; tried to sense their lifeforce, which was connected to his magic.

With a stab of exertion, he waved his wand. "_Oppugno!_"

Two birds swooped down on the grey-eyed man, rupturing in a burst of black feathers against an iridescent shield. Harry thrust his wand in one, long motion; more Transfigured birds zoomed, like winged bullets, towards the man, who was forced to shift his shield sideways. The rest of the flock collapsed to his protective spell, but one bird managed to pass through and nick the man's ear.

When the man smirked and fired a blue light at him, Harry yelled, "_Patrocino!_"

The last Transfigured bird plunged in front of Harry, absorbed the blue spell, and exploded with a loud squawk.

"Offensive Transfiguration? Finally, you're learning," the grey-eyed man said, loping between the swings, as though he was playing Catch or Tag with Harry, instead of duelling. "This warrants a reward. As a treat, you may call me the Jack of Spades, or just Jack, if we're buddies."

Harry, panting and drained from the exhausting Transfiguration, still managed to shoot the man a poisonous glare.

"You still have much more to learn, though. Be more aware." The man – the Jack of Spades – smiled and flicked his wand at the oak tree whose leaves Harry had accidentally stripped earlier.

"For example, what happened to the person who cast the Padfoot Patronus?"

When Harry stiffened in realisation and lunged aside, a green-haired woman wearing a black cloak had already materialised by the oak tree and was aiming her wand at him.

"_Arsomnus,_" she said, and Harry buckled under a green spell. A paralysing lethargy gripped his limbs, as he fell to the floor. His eyelids felt as heavy as bricks; he was struggling to stay awake.

"Excellent work, as usual, from the Queen of Spades," said Jack, smiling at the scowling, green-haired woman, who was waving her wand at the demolished play-equipment; the Penguin Slide rematerialized with a flash of purple, and all other evidence of their duel vanished. "Sorry that I had to drag things out like that, though. I wanted to teach him a few lessons."

They were playing with him from the very beginning, Harry recognised with disgust. He had no chance of surviving even from the start.

Walking over to Harry's motionless form, the Jack of Spades pulled out a vial of thick, brackish water from his robes.

"You're probably wondering who we are, and why we're doing this to you," he said, flipping open the vial. "You're right in that you've done nothing wrong to us. Right now, you're completely innocent."

The man grinned, as if he was recounting a particularly funny joke. "We're doing this because of what you _might_ do, the threat you _might_ cause."

And he shoved the black potion down Harry's throat.

"The poison you've just ingested is a new prototype from our organisation," the green-haired woman, the Queen of Spades, said. She pursed her lips, as though she'd rather be somewhere else. "It'll leave no traces behind. Nobody will know what killed you."

"You should be passing away any second now. Proof of what comes when you upset the Alucard Cooperative," she said to Harry, who was now screaming in agony. With one last, inscrutable look, she Disapparated with a faint pop.

The Jack of Spades lingered for another second. "Remember, Harry, trust _nobody_ but yourself. Trust nobody."

And he too Disapparated, leaving Harry to die alone in the playground.

Harry shuddered and writhed, while golden sunlight returned to the park, and a frail breeze began stroking the trees once more. He choked; his body was hot, and every limb burned, as if his skin itself was on fire. Pain beyond imagination struck his scar, pain beyond even the Cruciatus Curse – and Harry knew Voldemort was feeling this too, every part of his body screaming... His bones cracked and jolted, as though they were melting and liquefying.

_At least I'll see my parents – and Sirius again,_ Harry thought, as he closed his eyes, and knew no more.

.

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* * *

.

.

" – And we found his body in the playground, the one by Begonia Avenue. My word, were we surprised!"

"Of course you were. His knee was sliced open, and he was splayed over, clothes all bloody and dirty – you'd think he was dead. His condition is stable now, though, thankfully. But now we have to find his parents."

_So tired... Everything feels so hazy..._

"I have half a mind not to! Who would do that to a child? Beat him up and leave him to die?"

_A grey-eyed man and a green-haired woman. A black potion. Bones burning, and pain. Pain– pain, everywhere... Am I still alive? Shouldn't I be dead?_

"It's appalling, I know. But he's just a little boy... We need to contact his legal guardians, before anything."

_Where am I? I feel cold... why am I wearing just a gown? Urgh, bright lights – my eyes hurt._

"Look! He's waking up! Son, son, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for us, little boy?"

_Little boy?_

Groaning, Harry bent up and opened his eyes. He fumbled around blindly, and someone thrust his glasses onto his face; strangely, his thin-wire glasses felt big and clumsy, as though they were too big for his head.

"What's going on?" he muttered, as he squinted at his surroundings. It was obvious that he was in a Muggle hospital: a friendly, round-faced doctor and a young policewoman hovered over him, concerned; bright floodlights hung from the ceiling, and there was a disinfected cleanliness which hung in the air. He was even wearing a flimsy, oversized gown, while lying in one of those rigid, starchy hospital-beds.

_Wait... _oversized_ gown? What – _

"M-Mirror. C-Can I please have a mirror?" Harry asked wildly, panic pooling in his stomach. Even his voice, it sounded familiar but _different_.

"Now, now, you've just woken up. Are you sure that –"

"Mirror! J-Just give me a mirror!"

The doctor shuffled forward and pulled out a small, silver mirror from a bedside table. Trembling, Harry snatched it and stared at his reflection.

There, he saw his telling lightning-bolt scar. His eyes were still almond-shaped and striking green. Skin: still pale-white, although covered with a bit of blood. Even his hair was unchanged, unruly and sticking up at the back. This was, most definitely, his own face.

But Harry felt his world collapse around him; reverberating from shock, he nearly dropped the mirror.

The reflection: the face of a ten year-old Harry Potter stared back at him.

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-X-X-X-

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**A/N:** Edited in 28/01/11, thanks to the astute folks at DLP


	3. Chapter Three: The Alchemist

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or anything you can recognise from the books. The series belongs to J.K. Rowling and the people who publish the books and produce the movies.

**A/N: **I don't particularly like this chapter, but it serves a purpose of moving the plot forward. Now things are getting more and more complicated. To those who are wondering where is the Voldemort/Death Eater action, don't worry: you'll get that soon enough in the next chapter(s).

Still looking for a Beta. Have fun reading about the now shrunken Harry Potter! So many unanswered questions... Let's see how Harry will pull himself out of this one.

* * *

**– CHAPTER THREE –**

_The Alchemist_

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-X-X-X-

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The ten-year old face of Harry Potter stared back at him.

His lungs felt empty; Harry struggled to breathe. Panic jolted up and down his body, like electricity, exacerbating his shudders. This wasn't happening to him, this can't be happening to him. No, this had to be a nightmare, just like all the other dreams he'd had recently. It **had** to be. This just wasn't possible.

"Son, are you feeling okay? Do you want to talk to us now, or should we come back later?"

The friendly doctor's words didn't even register in Harry's mind. Harry was too busy goggling his reflection.

His cheeks were puffier and rounder, which took away his sharp, adolescent angles and supplanted them with a ridiculous, naïve demeanour. Moreover, somehow his ears expanded, or his face shrunk; only the Creeveys – and Dobby – seemed more childish. The only good thing about his new, deaged appearance was his eyes. For reasons unknown, they appeared wider and brighter, with longer lashes and an insouciant, green gleam. Though currently, those eyes reflected mainly shock.

"H-How long have I been out?" Harry asked the pleasant-faced doctor. He flinched at the sound of his voice; was he really that high-pitched and _squeaky_ back when he was ten?

The young policewoman answered him: "I found your body in Begonia Park at seven in the morning, so you've been out for approximately one hour and a half. How's your head? Still sore?"

"Um, only a little," Harry said. Touching his lightning scar, he felt a white, gauze bandage wrapped around his head. It stung dully, like a heavy bruise; he must have hit his head when he collapsed on the playground floor, after being spelled by that green-haired woman.

"My name is Sasaki, and this is my friend, Dr Levski." The policewoman sat next to Harry, quietly. "Now, what do your friends call you?"

"Mark, Mark Evans," Harry lied, saying the first name that popped into his head. Pulling off the bedsheets, he tried to slide out of bed, but flinched at the pointed throbbing in his injured, left knee.

Harry put on his most innocent, vulnerable face; he needed to allay any suspicions of him, and playing "the scared, little boy" was the easiest way.

"Where am I? H-Has anyone tried to see me yet?" he asked.

The policewoman mellowed at Harry's guileless expression. "You're at the Guilford Adventist Hospital in Hampshire. No one knows you're here, except me and the doctors, but right now, we're trying to contact your relatives."

He had to get out here right now, Harry recognised restively. If he didn't leave the hospital soon, the Jack of Spades and his friend might discover he's not dead and finish the job.

First, he had to get the policewoman and the doctor out the room. Think _quickly_. Be smart. After the Padfoot Patronus... he couldn't afford to be too open and trusting. He had to be cautious, more canny. Harry realised with disgust: _More Slytherin_.

"M-My relatives? Please don't tell them I'm here," Harry whispered, starting his act. He really didn't want to do this, but it was the quickest way. "They'll hurt me again. I wasn't supposed to be seen by anyone."

"Who'll hurt you, Mark? Do your relatives push you around, or threaten you?"

"Uncle Ver-Verdie calls me a freak. He makes me sleep in the cupboard, 'cause I'm good for nothing, like my parents." Harry hitched his voice, for maximum effect. "I promised not to cry, but h-he gets angry and picks up the kitchen knife – and it h-hurts."

Dr Levski gave the policewoman, Sasaki, a dark look. "That explains the cuts on the knee and maybe even the head wound."

"Mark, we promise we won't hurt you," started Sasaki, carefully. "Just tell us where your uncle lives, and we'll make sure that no one ever hurts you again."

Harry shook his head wildly and drew back against the wall. "N-No, you'll lie and hurt me, like Uncle Verdie. I-I'm sorry – p-please leave me alone. I'll try not to be a freak, I'll try, I – please, leave me alone."

Drawing his arms around himself, he whimpered and held a stiff, rigid pose, the one which he knew would do the trick.

Dr Levski took the bait. "The boy's become catatonic. There's no use in approaching him when he's in such a fearful state," he said gravely to Sasaki. "We best leave him alone and talk to him later, after he's acclimatised to this new environment."

When Sasaki nodded, the doctor called out to a short, sallow-skinned nurse standing outside the door: "The patient has relatively minor injuries, but please monitor him regularly, in case he poses a risk to himself. For now, leave him to be."

Smiling gently at Harry, Dr Levski left the room and closed the door, but Harry was able to still catch snippets of his conversation with the nurse: "Report to me immediately when you see him leave that catatonic state."

As Dr Levski's voice appear to trail off, along with his footsteps, the policewoman beside Harry frowned.

"Are you sure you don't want to say anything, Mark?" she asked.

Harry didn't respond.

Sighing, Sasaki stood up and placed her briefcase by the nightstand. Then, after giving the catatonic Harry one last, sympathetic glance, she walked out of the hospital room.

Once he was sure that the policewoman had left the vicinity, Harry relaxed his position. The abused act had worked. He was finally alone, and likely to be so for the next ten minutes, at the least; he predicted that the nurse wouldn't check on him until then, due to his believable "frightened catatonia".

Maybe the act was successful because Harry based it off some of his own experiences, albeit exaggerated. He didn't know where he got the knife-wielding uncle image, though. Despite their tendencies to yell at him and feed him only half of what Dudley the Orca consumed, the Dursleys never hurt him physically. It would have raised too many troublesome questions from the neighbours.

Focussing back on his current predicament, Harry hopped off the bed. His bandaged left knee still stung, but if he leaned against his right and moved slowly, it wasn't so bad.

He grabbed the policewoman's briefcase from the table and began rummaging through it. It had to be in here – Harry watched enough of Dudley's crime shows while hidden to know that for minor cases, police officers often carried important evidence on person. He opened the briefcase's various compartments. Then, with a whoop of triumph, Harry pulled out his Holly wand. It must have fallen out of his hand at the end of the duel, and Sasaki must have taken it from the playground; the wand was far too odd-looking to be ignored.

Harry smiled. He felt a lot calmer and reassured, now that he had his wand again. It emanated a comforting warmth in his hand, like a long-lost friend.

Thank goodness Sasaki was assumptive and witless enough to leave her briefcase in the room, unattended.

However, ponderings on his current situation quickly overtook Harry's euphoria at finding his wand.

"Facts: been led by a Patronus and attacked by two people, a witch and a wizard. They both don't seem to be ordinary Death Eaters," he muttered to himself, gripping his wand. "The two of them play around with me and then try to kill me with some potion, which turns me into a ten year-old instead."

"All I need now is to have crumpets and a death-duel with Voldemort, and my day's complete," Harry said sardonically.

Taking a deep breath, Harry tried to think of a way out of this mess. He knew that this hospital, being in Hampshire, was only a twenty minute walk to Surrey, and a thirty minute one to Little Whinging. Maybe he could give the hospital staff the slip and return to Privet Drive by foot. But that was dangerous: although the two assassins might have thought he was dead and that their potion had worked, they could still be in the local area.

And Harry had learnt that he couldn't take on both of them, especially now that he couldn't even legally drink Butterbeer.

He needed to contact someone, then. Get some help from the Order of the Phoenix. They'd know what to do – one simple spell from Professor Dumbledore, and he'd be back in his sixteen year-old body. Even Snape would be able to cure him with his vile concoctions, although Harry snarled at the mere thought of the greasy Potions Master. However, where could he find them?

With a sinking heart, Harry realised that he did not know where the current Headquarters were. His recollections of arriving at Grimmauld Place were muddled; the last time, he went there by broom, which tended to be a somewhat hectic and chaotic method of travelling. Was it even certain that Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was the place of the Headquarters? Sirius owned that house, and who knew what was detailed in his Will?

That only left the Leakey Cauldron and Diagon Alley. He could filch some money from a nurse and ride a cab or take the bus to London. An owl to Dumbledore would solve the rest. But first, get out of this hospital, before the two who attacked him trail him here.

Nodding at his plan, Harry pulled the oversized gown to his knees, so he wouldn't step on the end and trip over in a crude imitation of Tonks.

He sighed at the shortness of his legs. Why did he have to be so _tiny_ as a ten year old?

Harry opened the door. The corridor appeared to be empty. As fast as his left knee would allow him, he staggered down the hall. At the hall's end, it was a bit busier: a train of doctors and nurses were jostling and wheeling patients with varying injuries to and fro. There were loud shouts all around Harry, and everyone seemed too occupied to notice a small ten year-old in a giant, white gown.

But within this fray, a cloaked woman with cropped, green hair stood next to a similarly cloaked, younger man, whose startling grey eyes seemed to surveying the local area. Silver badges carrying a black Spade gleamed from their chests.

"The Jack of Spades and the Queen of Spades," Harry breathed in shock. He scurried behind a large counter, one without any nurses.

The two assailants moved through the crowd of patients and doctors, unnoticed and uncommented on, as if they were invisible. Perhaps they had cast a Muggle-Repelling Spell, or an Imperceptible Charm?

"Can't we just kill the doctor and get out already?" the Jack of Spades said to his companion. The people around him did not react to his words, as if under a spell. "Being among all these Muggles and their commotions is giving me a headache."

The green-haired woman glared at Jack. "We're Alucards, _not_ Death Eaters. We're going to do this the proper way and kill the man in a secluded area. The body cannot be traced back to us. You don't want to reveal our existence to the Ministry, do you?"

"If we use the potion we used on Harry Potter, there'll be no chances of that happening," Jack replied, making Harry wince at the mention of his name. The grey-eyed man eyeballed the doctors who ran past him, trying to find the one he was planning to kill. "The poison would cause advanced apoptosis, leaving behind no traces of residual magic – natural or otherwise. None of our spells would be detectable on the body. So who cares about careful – why not just make our move already?"

Then, he fired a jet of lilac light into the ceiling. Purple streamers danced above, unfurling like a spring blossom, until one long jet of light zigzagged down the hall and into a faraway room. For a moment, a few doctors blinked at the ceiling, as though they were noticing the magic, but they shook their heads and returned to their business, untroubled.

"There," Jack said, pointing at the zigzag beam. "Looks like we found our doctor. Come on, Grandma. Maybe we'll finish this before lunch– there's this new bistro on Flint Street I want to go to."

The two assailants – Alucards – followed the purple light and disappeared down the hall, as the Queen of Spades hissed disapprovingly: "Using magic so brazenly, even with the Imperceptible Charm. It's miracle you're still alive, twerp..."

Harry felt like his heart was too big for his chest; it was bursting hard against his ribs. _Those two_ were where, which meant that if he was seen or didn't leave the hospital imminently, Voldemort would be the least of his fears.

As Harry was edging away from the counter and towards a narrow corridor, a pair of hands suddenly wrapped around his mouth. He tried to scream and bite off the prying fingers, but the assailant held fast.

"Stop. Biting. I am here to help you, not kill you," whispered a scratchy, female voice. "When I let you down, don't scream. If you do, you will grab the Alucards' attention and get yourself killed."

And the hands snaked away from Harry's mouth. Immediately, Harry spun around and pointed his wand at his attacker, a short, horse-faced nurse with sickly skin. He recognised her as the one who was charged to monitor him by Dr Levski.

"Put down the wand, Harry. You'll poke someone's eye out," said the woman. She gave a strange, morbid smile. "And you don't want that: human eyes have lost much of their value as a rare potion ingredient, with the recent influx of dead bodies in Knockturn Alley."

Harry held his wand against the woman's face.

"Sceptical, are you? Your loss. Now, pay attention: there's a powerful Anti-Disapparition Jinx on this floor and its connecting corridors. Those two from the Alucard Cooperative have cast it, I believe, to pre-emptively stop all magical interference."

The nurse snorted, suggesting that she thought the two Alucards were rather unhinged or overly paranoid. Harry abruptly thought of Mad-Eye Moody. "The jinx will take too long to break. We'll need to sneak to the stairwell and go to the ground floor, where I can then Side-Along Apparate you to safety. Our only advantage is that they do not know you're alive, so we must not be seen. Got that? You can't be seen, by anyone."

"How do I know you're not trying to trick me?" Harry hissed, holding his wand up. "That you're not in league with those two, or, better yet, that you're not a Death Eater?"

The nurse didn't reply. Instead, she pulled a thin, grey wand from her sleeve and pointed it at Harry's left knee.

"_Erapevo_," she said.

His knee buzzed with heat, and the bandages flew off. The cuts had healed, leaving behind smooth, pink skin.

"That minor head-wound also needs to be fixed," the nurse said. She reached over, peeled off the gauze wrapping, and stated, "_Episkey!_"

The stinging above his neck disappeared. Surprised, Harry rubbed the places where the wounds once were and lowered his wand from the woman's face.

_Remember Harry, trust nobody but yourself,_ echoed a voice. _Trust nobody_.

"I still don't trust you," Harry told the nurse, as she pulled him to his feet.

"You don't need to. All I want is for you to use that precious mind of yours and understand that currently you are in great danger," she said, looking over her shoulder for any stray doctors or nurses. "Now, take my arm."

Harry did as told. The nurse glanced around warily and began tugging them towards the stairwell. They clung to the walls, deliberately staying under any shadows. The hallway was almost completely empty now. Two white-coat doctors did stride straight past them, though, and gave not so much as a glance at Harry. He wondered if the nurse beside him had nonverbally cast an Imperceptible Charm.

After another minute of walking, a spindly stairway materialised at the end of the hall. However, unlike the rest of the corridor, it was not empty. Against a railing, to Harry and the nurse's shock, the two Alucards stood looming over a quaking, round-faced doctor.

The nurse pushed herself and Harry behind a large, potted topiary. With almost preternatural speed, she waved her wand and cast a Disillusionment Charm on both of them. A wet feeling passed over his body, as if someone had cracked an egg over his head. Seconds later, the nurse and Harry both became near-invisible.

By the stairs, the Jack of Spades prodded the kneeling doctor with his wand.

"You claim, doctor, not to have told anyone your secrets, but we know better," he said coldly. "You know how much the Alucard Cooperative values its secrecy – and how we deal with those who threaten it."

"I didn't tell anyone, I promise you," whimpered the doctor, biting his lip. With dawning horror, Harry realised that the trembling man was Dr Levski, the kind-faced man from earlier. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know any secrets – "

"Liar!" the Queen of Spades hissed. "You know, by sheer coincidence and circumstance, about our leader! You've even divulged this information to many others, including your sister. And this woman."

The Queen of Spade gestured at a bound and gagged, Asian policewoman, who was struggling at Jack's feet. When Sasaki kicked the Jack of Spades again, he directed a red beam at her. She instantly fell unconscious.

"I understand that she's just a Muggle and therefore no threat to us, but secrecy is everything to the Alucard Cooperative," said the Jack of Spades, crouching down to meet Levski in the eye. He took out a vial of black, brackish water. "Now, Dr Levski, just tell us who knows and – "

"_Reducto!_" the nurse shouted.

Spinning around, the Jack of Spades deflected the jet of red light with a bright, transparent blue shield. But the deflected beam collided into the concrete eaves, blasting outwards in a loud explosion of dust and debris. The two Alucards coughed and stumbled, confused.

Seizing this chance, the nurse hauled Harry down the stairwell and to the edge of the Anti-Disapparition Jinx.

"_Grab my arm!_"

Harry clasped the nurse's arm, and felt her turn on the spot; his arms twisted back and his legs stretched, compressed, as though he was being squeezed down a small, metal pipe. Darkness flashed between images of a small, brick house and the hospital. As his chest tightened and his body twisted through a vice-like grip, he thought he saw the Queen of the Spades and her shocked, black eyes staring at him. Then, there was a loud cracking sound, and Harry felt him fall onto a soft, carpet floor.

Harry breathed deeply, still suffocating from the pressure that had just been around his chest. He opened his eyes and tried to push himself off the ground.

"That was Side-Along Apparition. Not very fun, is it?" the nurse said, brushing dust off her blouse. She gave Harry a creepy, lopsided smile. "Too bad you didn't get Splinched; it would have been a most fascinating incident to observe."

Harry did not answer. Turning away from the short, sallow nurse, who still appeared rather untrustworthy, he studied the room into which he had Apparated.

What he saw was especially peculiar, unlike any other room he had ever seen. Plump, pashmina cushions rested on a lurid couch. Two Victorian cabinets carried an assortment of porcelain dolls with painted cheeks and lacy bonnets; to Harry's revulsion, many of the dolls did not have heads. A large, writing desk wore layers of frilly, cascading coverings, giving the impression of a frosted, layer cake. Portraits of fat, little girls in flowery dresses hung over the pink, beribboned walls. However, within this fray of frills and laces, there were also mahogany shelves packed with dusty tomes, sharp instruments glistening with dried bloodstains, and large glass jars filled with disgusting, pustuled things that Snape would blather over.

It was as if Umbridge's _Madame Alexander_ Catalogue had produced a lovechild with Snape's _Moste Potente Potions_.

"If you are unsettled by all this pink, I apologise," the nurse said, settling down on the plush couch. "My late wife Perenelle was in charge of decorating, and she had a particular zest for collecting cerise-coloured dolls."

"Your late what? Are you saying that you're – " Harry narrowed his eyes. "Who exactly _are_ you?"

The nurse smiled widely, as though Harry had proposed an interesting, new, scientific theory. "Polyjuice Potion lasts only an hour, so you'll be finding out." She checked her Minnie Mouse wristwatch and said, "Any minute now."

Then, the woman began to change. Her long, limp hair swooped back to her ears and became silver and curly. The flat nose lengthened and plunged, becoming pointed and aquiline. Next, her skin bubbled like a boiling potion. It lost its sallow tint and abraded with blotches and age-marks. Thick veins emerged, like mountain ranges. The short body grew tall, towering over Harry's child's frame, and crouched with old age. A smooth moustache and goatee blossomed from her, no, _his_ face. Fingers thinned to the bone and became nimble, like those of an experienced Potioneer.

After another minute, an aged man in a white, nurse's blouse stood next to Harry.

"Late wife Perenelle... Perenelle Flamel... You're Nicolas Flamel!" Harry gasped, pointing at the man. "The Creator of the Philosopher's Stone!"

"You forgot World-Renown Alchemist and the Hogwarts Gobstones Champion of 1341. But, yes, you're correct," said Flamel, his voice much more gravelly than the nurse's. He gave Harry a warm, but eerily toothy smile. "Got it right on the first guess, too. Albus told me you were an intelligent boy."

Flamel took out a crystal flask containing a murky, celadon liquid from the blouse and placed it on the table.

"More Polyjuice Potion, in case the last dose wore off before I could retrieve you," Flamel explained to Harry, who was glancing at the flask. "Mr Potter, if I may, would you indulge this old man and tell me how you deduced my identity?"

Sheepish, Harry tugged on his hospital gown. "Um, I did some research on you in my First Year when someone was trying to steal your Stone... and I saw those Alchemy-Potions ingredients behind you and remembered that, er, you were-are really old."

"And it just clicked," Harry finished, lamely. He glimpsed at the rows of sharpened scalpels and bottled, pickled hearts, which he hoped weren't human. Even with the girlish lacing, this room was reminding Harry unpleasantly of a mad scientist's lab, the type which would host horrific dissections in Dudley's comic books. "So, could you please tell me what's going on?"

"Before we move on to those grim matters, why don't we deal with your clothing first?" Flamel said. "It won't do to have the hero of the Wizarding World run around in just a giant bedsheet, as fashionable as it may be."

Flamel swished his wand at Harry. With a flash of viridian light, the hospital gown shrunk and transformed into a garish, Hello Kitty sweater and a basic pair of jeans. Harry picked at the horrible sweater, remembering darkly that it was worn exclusively by girls. At least this attire fit his small frame, though, unlike the gown.

"Sir, why aren't you changing your clothes as well? You don't have to wear that blouse anymore," Harry said, when Flamel pocketed his wand and made no indication of leaving his nurse's dress.

"Modern Muggle fashion intrigues me, especially this contraption called 'pantyhose'. Women wear the most peculiar clothes, so in the interest of scientific inquiry, I shall keep on this outfit."

Flamel flourished the blouse and once again, gave an eerie smile. Harry edged as far away as his deaged body would allow him. The aged alchemist then rose from the couch, pinched a bottle of Gurdyroot Infusion next to a decapitated doll ornament, and poured some of the foul, purple liquid into a teacup.

"Here, drink this. It will strengthen your mind and help you come to terms with what I am about to tell you," Flamel said, offering Harry the Gurdyroot Infusion. Hesitantly, he took the cup and downed the rancid-smelling liquid, gagging. It tasted revolting, like Gym socks.

"The people whom you saw at the hospital are not Death Eaters, nor do they work for Albus Dumbledore or the Ministry of Magic," Flamel said, once Harry had put down his cup. "They are Alucards, part of an organisation linked to the ICW."

"The ICW?"

"The International Confederation of Wizards. The Wizarding equivalent of the United Nations, if you will," Flamel clarified. "Apart from that, very little is known about the Alucard Cooperative, as they supposedly call themselves. Some say that they are international Hit Wizards along the lines of the Muggle Interpol, while others claim that the Cooperative is a secret foundation which conducts research into darker magic."

"Like the Department of Mysteries?" Harry asked.

"That's the closest thing to it, I suppose," said Flamel. "The point is, Harry, next to nobody even knows about the organisation and therefore, next to nothing about them can be ascertained with any degree of confidence. It isn't even certain whether the ICW officially sponsors the Alucards as one of its branches, or if the Cooperative is a separate entity onto itself."

Flamel sipped his infusion of Gurdyroot. "Regardless, the Alucards are exceedingly capable; the great extent to which their existence is hidden is a testament to their skills. Once they decide to kill you, your life is most assuredly forfeit – and there is little you can do to prevent it."

Harry felt as though a hand had seized his intestines and had clawed at them. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out.

"Now, before I continue, why don't you tell me your version of events?" Flamel asked, eyeing Harry keenly and a little unsettlingly, much like how a scientist would examine a particularly juicy frog, before dissecting it.

Harry stiffened and gave Flamel an uneasy, wary glance. Even as he sat in the alchemist's living room and sipped the alchemist's infusions, the Jack of Spades's words rang in his mind: _Trust nobody, but yourself… trust nobody_.

Flamel noticed Harry's hesitance and smiled. "Only when I know what has happened to you so far, can I help you with your troubles. Have a little faith in me. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done so already – or abandoned you to your enemies. You have several, I believe."

Despite his distrustful vigilance, Harry could not fault Flamel's logic. And so, he started telling Flamel everything. He talked about Dumbledore's letter and the suspicion he felt when the Headmaster sent Fawkes the phoenix, instead of a standard, school owl. He recounted the Padfoot Patronus which had appeared on his doorstep – and led him away from the safety of Privet Drive, to Begonia Park. What he didn't mention was the strange hope in his heart when he saw Padfoot, or the crushing disappointment and foolishness he felt upon arriving at the empty playground.

"A Patronus Charm? Forgive my insensitivity, but I must applaud the Alucards, I'm assuming, for their ingenuity," Flamel interrupted, when Harry took a moment to compose himself. "The protections on Privet Drive explicitly repel all forms of Dark magic. A Patronus Charm, the epitome of positive thought, would not qualify thusly and would consequently be able to penetrate the blood wards. Anyway, do continue."

Harry recounted the strange chill which then enveloped the playground, how the morning sunlight grew dull against the Penguin Slide; how the entire area felt encapsulated, like a vacuum. He told Flamel about the Jack of Spades and the following duel, how the Alucard spoke to him. Harry recounted the appearance of the Queen of Spades and how the Jack of Spades forced him a vile poison which was supposed to erase all traces of his existence. He concluded with awaking in the hospital, deaged to ten, and escaping the ward, after tricking the doctor and retrieving his wand.

"That's when I bumped into you," Harry said, looking at Flamel. He narrowed his sharp, green eyes. "Why were you there at the hospital, though, Polyjuiced as one of the nurses? It's almost like –"

"– I was expecting your arrival? Waiting to rescue you? Anticipating your deaging?" finished Flamel, adding a spoonful of sugar to his Grudyroot Infusion. "The answer is yes, to all of the above."

Harry growled, his expression guarded. "But why?"

"Simple. I chose to protect you because I owe you a debt," Flamel said. "You saved the Philosopher's Stone more than four years ago, from Lord Voldemort. Had you not been there, Quirrell would have, growing impatient, broken the Mirror of Erised and taken the Stone by force. Your presence that night prevented that from happening – and stopped Voldemort's resurrection through the Elixir of Life."

Sighing, the alchemist sipped the infusion. "Any use of my creations for such abominable evil, without any consideration of scientific progress or basic moral codes – it would have been a fate worse than death for me, a trespass upon my integrity as a man of science. That was why Perenelle and I chose to destroy the Stone after Quirrell's attempt, to eliminate the possibility of such an event."

"But I am indebted to you," Flamel said slowly, giving Harry an intent stare. "So when a source – which, for the greater good, shall remain unnamed – informed me of your situation, I arranged for your safety."

When Harry fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and avoided Flamel's eye, the alchemist raised a single eyebrow. "You do not believe me? Very well, I am forced to prove my allegiance to you."

Flamel pulled the grey wand out of his nurse's blouse and raised it. "I, Nicolas Étienne Flamel, swear upon all my magic and upon my _soma_, my _sarx_, and my _pneuma_ that I intend Harry James Potter no harm."

At Flamel's words, a thin tongue of fire flared outwards and shone on Harry's astonished face, as though a magical contract had been made; Harry was reminded of the Goblet of Fire.

"This is not quite as good as an Unbreakable Vow, but adequate for this situation," Flamel said, as the supernatural fire glowed once more, before fading. "The Oath of Fealty will remove my magic and turn me into a Squib, in the event that I infringe its words. This is enough proof, I do hope?"

"Now, although I find some of this incessant paranoia deeply amusing, we must segue to more serious matters," Flamel said to the stunned Harry. "Currently, nobody other than myself is aware of your existence, or your current whereabouts. This includes the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix."

The mention of the Order stirred Harry from his stupor: "_What!_ That's not possible. What about the Trace? If they can sense Dobby's Hover Charm, then they would've _definitely_ noticed the Patronus Charm and all those spells from the playground!"

He winced at the shrillness of his ten year-old voice.

"The Ministry can only sense spells being cast within the areas they are monitoring – the Improper Use of Magic Office can no longer trace the spell after the incantation is complete," Flamel replied in his gravelly voice. "Unfortunately for you, the one who fashions herself the Queen of Spades incanted the Patronus Charm outside the monitored boundaries of Little Whinging, which signifies that it was not detected."

The alchemist continued in a glib tone: "Moreover, the vacuum over Begonia Park, following your description, was almost certainly a spell which confines all magical activity to the established perimeters – the playground. While that spell was maintained, all of your Disarming Spells and Blasting Curses would have been undetectable.

"Also, the playground, unfortunately, is outside of the Ministry-monitored areas in Little Whinging, the areas closest to No. 4 Privet Drive. Therefore, the vacuum spell itself would have also slipped by the sensors unnoticed."

"So no one knows how I disappeared?" Harry said, becoming more and more nauseous.

Flamel nodded, appearing rather cheery at this revelation, as though he was being tested with an excitingly complex riddle. "Dumbledore, thinking that the Blood Wards are more than sufficient protection, relies on similar, mediocre methods of tracking as the Ministry, so yes.

"Before casting the Patronus, the Alucards had discreetly incapacitated the Order member charged with watching you – the Metamorphagus Tonks – with a Confundus Charm, performed under a Bedazzling Hex."

Flamel grinned widely, like Dobby, after the elf had received a cache of Hermione's woolly hats. "The girl's constant tripping over made her easy to ambush. At any rate, she has no recollections of what had happened and so, the Order believes that you have been taken by the Death Eaters, mysteriously and silently."

Immediately, Harry thought of his loved ones – Ron and Hermione, Lupin and the Weasleys. They would be worried sick, searching for him and preparing for the worst…

"Why would the Order believe that Death Eaters took me?" Harry said stubbornly, trying to avoid the image of a wrought Hermione, ashen with fear. "I could've chosen to runaway, or something. Isn't that just as plausible as a reason for my disappearance?"

"No, because your luggage is still at Privet Drive," Flamel responded. "Only your wand, and the clothes you were wearing, were missing. If you had voluntarily taken flight from Privet Drive, I imagine that you would at least take your Invisibility Cloak, for stealth. Therefore, Death Eater involvement is the most probable answer."

"The Death Eaters themselves have little clue to your whereabouts, although I doubt that they are as saddened as the Order or the Ministry. I believe that you are not on the best terms with them?"

Harry snorted. "Yeah, if they didn't try to disembowel me every now and then, I'm sure we'd be best friends."

"Disembowelling had gotten out of fashion in the seventies: too much blood for a rather slow death. I would not use it, myself," Flamel said in a semi-serious voice, which disconcerted Harry. "The Death Eaters are far more likely to use the Killing Curse, which is more effective. Anyway, all three parties do not know how you have disappeared, or your current whereabouts. We must use this to our advantage."

"Our advantage? Why? Am I still in danger?" asked Harry.

"The Alucards are ruthless. I do not know what you have done to upset them, but they possess a magic far greater than you can imagine. Once they discover that they were unsuccessful in killing you, they will stop at nothing to complete the task. And with your current, vulnerable form – " Flamel gestured at Harry's ten year-old body. " – they will have little trouble in doing so. No, you must remain hidden."

"But Dumbledore could stop them, he has to know a way," insisted Harry. "And who's to say this is permanent? A little Ageing Potion should bring me back up to sixteen."

"You mentioned earlier that the poison involved apoptosis? I have my theories, but it is almost certain that your condition will not be reversed by a mere Ageing Potion. My condolences, but your deaging is very much permanent for now," answered Flamel, fixing Harry with a thrilled, speculative gaze, as if he had gotten an early Christmas present. The alchemist was enjoying Harry's troubles from a scientist's point of view, far too much.

"As for Albus, he is, to my knowledge, not even aware of the Alucard Cooperative's existence. Even I did not until very recently. His lack of intelligence regarding the Alucards, coupled with his tendency to believe that he knows best, will lead your demise," Flamel said, ignoring Harry's protests.

"Since the forces we are dealing with are mysterious and powerful, your only choice is to hide. You are in no condition to ward off both the Alucards and the Death Eaters."

"But, I –"

The alchemist smiled knowingly. "You wish to involve more people in your troubles with the Alucards? That would almost be like _consciously_ endangering them."

Harry clutched the arm of the pink, frilly couch. He glared at the china cabinet, mentally wishing that the headless, porcelain dolls would burst into fire. The screams of the Department of Mysteries, with Ron's gurgling blood and Hermione's wound-red chest, echoed in his ears, as Sirius passed through the Veil, face tauten with surprise… Flamel was right: it would be a dark day before Harry would lead his friends into danger once more.

"What do you have in mind?" Harry said, resigned.

Giddy, Flamel flounced his nurse's skirt and leaned closer towards Harry. "Excellent! This is a most grand opportunity to do some fascinating research… What I have planned, Harry, is ambitious, but likely to succeed: we must hide all hints of your survival and whereabouts. But the less people know, the more difficult it will be for the Cooperative to track you. You're no good to the Anti-Voldemort movement if you're decomposing from some Alucard-issued poison. For that reason, only a select number of people shall be privy to your situation."

"Select number of people?" repeated Harry. He had an ominous feeling about where Flamel was heading. "Exactly how many people do you have in mind?"

"Just two. You and me."

"How are you going to manage that?" Harry asked. Then, his eyes widened in realisation, and a dawning horror dropped on his heart, like an anvil. "_No_, you can't be serious!"

"Quite frankly, I am," said Flamel. The alchemist's dark eyes twinkled, swimming with unbridled anticipation.

"We are going to have to fake your death, Mr Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived will have to die."

.

.

-X-X-X-

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.

**A/N:** Edited as of 28/01/11, thanks to the astute folks at DLP.


	4. Chapter Four: The Grievous Gambit

**AN/Uno:** Here's the fourth chapter. Edited and betaed by the awesome **enembee**, so kudos and Diet Coke to him. Also, thanks to the people at DLP in general for helping with this story.

Biscuits and cookies to the person who can figure out what the Dagger's name is an allusion to.

Any reviews and constructive feedback are welcome!

******Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter, or anything you can recognise from the books. The series belongs to J.K. Rowling and the people who publish the books and produce the movies

* * *

**– CHAPTER FOUR –**

_The Grievous Gambit_

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-X-X-X-

.

It took a few seconds for the full implications of this statement to sink in. Meanwhile Flamel sipped his Gurdyroot Infusion again and smiled, almost as though he was expecting to receive an especially fine Christmas present any moment now.

Harry leapt to his feet, sending his empty tea cup flying.

"You're crazy!" he shouted. "How could you even think that? This is mental!"

"Contrary to popular belief, I do possess a modicum of both lucidity and sanity," Flamel said brightly. "Trust me when I say that I have thought this through. Would you like some more Gurdyroot?"

Flamel held the bottle of putrid, purple Infusion near Harry's face. Harry pushed it away with a growl.

"What you're suggesting would _destroy_ my friends. They'll think I'm dead," he said. Harry's ten year-old body bristled. "And the Order, the Ministry, everyone– They're all relying on me to be the 'Chosen One' and fight Voldemort. If I die, they'd be crushed, and – "

Harry didn't finish the end of that sentence; both he and Flamel knew what would happen to the public if the Boy-Who-Lived died. Shock and panic would descend, like summer rain.

As Harry slumped his shoulders, Flamel snagged a pair of knitting needles and a spool of magenta yarn from beside a basket of dried flowers. The alchemist began to crochet the rose-coloured wool, which unpleasantly reminded Harry of Umbridge's vomit-pink cardigan.

"But if you do not hide the Alucards will kill you," Flamel said. The knitting needles made a rhythmic, clicking sound. "And then all hope is _truly_ lost. The moment you leave the mortal realm forever, the magical world is forfeit to Voldemort. Only you can fulfil the Prophecy – not Neville Longbottom, not Albus Dumbledore. Only you."

Harry stared down at his feet and was amazed at how small they were compared to his mormal, sixteen year-old feet. The toes were so small, barely half the size of the originals; they painfully reminded Harry of his vulnerability and of his current weaknesses. He was just a kid and easy prey for the Death Eaters, a pig for an Alucard slaughter.

In this pitiful state, he could do nothing to protect his friends.

"How am I even supposed to fake my death, though? It's going to be impossible to fool Voldemort, let alone Dumbledore," Harry said weakly.

He pointed at his lightning-bolt scar. "I'm not exactly unrecognisable."

"Leave all that to me. I will craft you a new appearance, a new name, a new identity. You will be safe – no one will be able to find you."

Flamel slid over to the table suffocating under a plunge of lacy drapes. Opening one of the drawers, he withdrew a long, black object.

It was a sacrificial dagger, encrusted with a silvery slew of opals and moonstone. Dulled bloodstains clung to the dagger's serrated edge, giving the impression of a hound's teeth.

Two, intertwined, onyx snakes adorned the hilt, which had engraved the words:_ 'Olah et Akedah'_

"Slice your hand with this dagger and draw blood," said Flamel. The alchemist adorned that eerie grin, the grin of a researcher about to exscind a dead body's stomach. "That is all you need to do. Just one simple cut, and all your problems will be solved."

Flamel handed the dagger to Harry.

Harry stared at it; his own reflection, pale and unnaturally young, gazed back at him from the serrated edge. Then, as Ron's bloodied face from that day at the Department of Mysteries shimmered in front of him, Harry dragged the dagger across his hand.

There was a searing pain, and a surge of red.

Flamel lunged towards him and pulled a crystal vial from the folds of his nurse's blouse.

"Well done, my boy, well done," said Flamel, collecting the drips of blood in the vial. After another minute, he capped the flask with an emerald stopper. "Your blood is worth a great deal, much more than mine or any others'. Yes, yes… a most fascinating specimen. It should be most apposite for our designs."

The alchemist pocketed the vial of blood. Then, he jabbed the tip of his wand towards the jagged cuts on Harry's hand.

"_Erapevo_," he said. "_Epiaceso_."

Harry's hand felt hot and then cold, as though it had been dipped in arctic water. The wounds knitted together, and with a flash of white, left behind a patch of sore but healed skin.

While Harry reflexively opened and closed his hand to test if it was fully healed, Flamel glanced at his Minnie Mouse wristwatch.

"Twenty past three. Already behind schedule. We must start moving now," said Flamel.

He stood up and waved his wand. Immediately, a bottle of heliotrope liquid soared from its place behind the bundled human fingers and a porcelain doll in a frilly bonnet. The alchemist caught the Summoned potion and thrust it into Harry's hands.

"It is Polyjuice potion. We will be travelling to a semi-public place, so you shall have to be disguised," explained Flamel. He picked up the crystal flask that he had set down earlier: the sallow nurse Polyjuice, from the Guilford Adventist Hospital. "Drink it now. Hurry."

Glancing at Flamel, Harry uncapped the bottle and took the heliotrope potion. His short, ten year-old body began to shift upwards, and the small '_Hello Kitty_' sweater and jeans strained and pulled under the growth of transformation.

Two minutes later, Harry opened his eyes and looked at his Polyjuiced body. To his great horror, he was a wispy woman with frazzled, grey hair. She was rather short, not that much taller than his ten year-old self, and was slim but surprisingly sturdy, with firm, wiry legs. Harry tried to ignore those _things_ nudging out from the middle of his sweater. Just being in a woman's body was giving him nausea and mental trauma beyond comprehension.

Flamel, in his disguise of the sallow, limp-haired nurse, straightened his blouse and moved his wand in a one, fluid motion. The tattering '_Hello Kitty_' sweater and jeans lengthened and transformed into a purple sundress. With another flick of Flamel's wand, a stiff cardigan not unlike Umbridge's materialised over Harry's shoulders.

"Currently, you are Mafalda Hopkirk, a Ministry worker from the Improper Use of Magic Office," said Flamel in the nurse's scratchy voice.

Flamel eyed Harry lavishly, as though he was a particularly delicious, juicy steak. "She was one of Perenelle's favourite bodies when we used to include the Polyjuice Potion in our bedroom antics."

Flamel grinned; Harry felt as if he was going to sick up.

"Alas, however lovely Mafalda is to gaze at, we must take additional precautions," said Flamel, flicking his wand at Harry. Mafalda's wispy, grey hair became lustrous and bright-red, reminding Harry of the Weasleys. Harry's arms also changed, losing their pallor and gaining an orangey, fake tan. Splashes of freckles dashed across his face.

The alchemist was not finished; he tapped Harry on the head and said, "_Dissimulso._"

The not unfamiliar, cool feeling of the Disillusionment Charm settled over Harry, and Mafalda Hopkirk's body began to glimmer; splotches of colour trickled over him, a trio of splashing red, green and blue.

After three seconds, Harry had become like a Chameleon, blending into the wall.

"Are you sure that you don't need to be Disillusioned too, sir?" Harry asked in Mafalda's quavery voice, as he shoved his Holly wand into the folds of the cardigan.

Flamel transfigured his nurse's attire into a simple business suit and grey pencil-skirt.

"I have already cast an Imperceptible Charm among other precautions, but we shall cross that bridge when we come to it," said Flamel. "Place your hand over my arm, Harry. We'll be Apparating. Brace yourself: this will be a bumpy ride. On three… two… one…"

Flamel twisted on the spot, and once again, Harry's limbs jolted and squirmed, as though they were being forced through a tight, rubber pipe.

After another second of darkness, Harry heard an audible _pop_ and found himself in a dumpster. Wading through the bags of garbage, he pulled himself out and onto the pavement.

"We are in an alleyway behind St Bathurst Avenue. Our destination, the morgue, is only around the corner," said Flamel from behind Harry. "It is nearly half past three; we must hurry."

They stepped out of the alleyway and scurried down the street. At the end of the road, a nondescript, brick-building stood bearing the sign: Davendash Medical Morgue.

Flamel followed a group of clean, smartly dressed men marching through the morgue. As he and Harry strode down the morgue's whitewashed hallway, not even one person – doctor or policeman – stopped or turned to them; they just blindly walked past, as though the two wizards were invisible.

In time, they reached a locked door labelled "Cold Chamber – Negative Temperature".

"_Alohomora_," Flamel said.

The door clicked open, and they walked into the room. The first thing Harry noticed was the smell. It smelled crushingly of Bleach, as though someone was trying to overcompensate and drown out a fetid stench with Aspetic. Despite the ventilation in the room, he had to labour to breathe. The room was also cold, colder than Snape's dungeons in winter. Harry felt like he had stepped into a meat freezer.

Behind Harry, Flamel whispered "_Colloportus_", and the door closed behind them with an odd squish.

"Hm. 'Male. Medium height. Caucasian. Cause of Death: Unknown'." Flamel held a piece of parchment in his hand and read it aloud. He examined the vault-like, metal doors attached to the walls.

"What are we doing here? Are we trying to collect something?" asked Harry, staring at the row of metal doors on the walls.

"Quiet, Harry. All will make sense soon. 'Identity Unverified and Unknown'," Flamel said, stopping at one of the doors. He brandished his wand. "We have a winner. Stand back, Harry. This is going to smell."

The metal door opened with a hiss. When Flamel waved his wand, a cloth-covered body emerged from the opened cache. Blue, splotchy hands poked lifelessly from under the blanket. A stench drafted from the body, reminding Harry of a festering, maggot-crusted wound.

Flamel took the covering off the body, aimed his wand, and said, "_Geminio_."

Another body, identical to the original, splattered onto the floor. After returning the duplicate to the cache with a Hover Charm, Flamel moved his wand in a fluid, sideward slash. The lank remains contorted into a horrible, human circle and shrunk downwards with a pernicious _whoosh_.

A second later, a smooth pebble sat where the body once lay.

"_Alohomora_," Flamel muttered, after pocketing the pebble in a small, beaded handbag.

The sealed door unfastened and flung forward, and Flamel and Harry slipped out the Cold Chamber. While Flamel closed the door behind them, Harry glanced around: men in laundered, laboratory coats were gliding through the many hallways, wheeling bodies in various states of death. Not one of them noticed Harry, or the intrusion into the Cold Chamber. Flamel had done his homework– Harry's tracks had been effectively concealed.

The two wizards walked out of the morgue with no incident. They returned to the same alleyway into which they had Apparated.

"Time to Apparate again. There is one more place to visit, before we can return home. Grab my arm – not so tightly, Harry," said Flamel.

Harry felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, while he loosened his hold on Flamel.

"At the count of three… two… one…"

There was the familiar squishing sensation and a moment of darkness. Then, with a soft _pop_, Harry felt himself land on a turf of grass.

"Ow," said Harry, rubbing the back of his head.

He pulled himself off the ground and studied his surroundings. A cluster of old oaks and lofty maple trees bristled around a wire fence, while a small, summer wind passed through rusty swings. A slippery slide in the shape of an enormous Emperor Penguin stood proudly amongst a slew of playground equipment. Flamel was standing by this slide, and appeared to be rummaging through his beaded handbag.

"Begonia Park? What are you planning to do here, sir?" Harry asked Flamel. As he stepped out of the shade of a large maple tree and towards the slide, Harry felt the burning kiss of the afternoon sun against him.

"Why, fake your death, my young Skywalker. It shall be a most enthralling task to undertake," Flamel said cheerfully, a little too cheerfully when considering the gravity of the situation.

When Harry gave a disgruntled face, the alchemist turned his head. "Why that look? Do you not like _Star Wars_? More of a _Dune_ fan, I take it? Or perhaps Tolkien tickles your fancy?"

"You're completely mental."

"Thank you, I consider that a compliment," said Flamel, while he cast the Alucards' vacuum spell over the playground. He then fished something out of the handbag; it was a clump of broken, spindly wood.

After throwing the wood fragments over the slide, he withdrew what appeared to be a long, scarlet feather from his suit.

Harry stared at the iridescent, red feather.

"A phoenix quill? Why do we need one of those?"

"It was a gift from Albus, a quill made with one of Fawkes's finest tail-feathers," said Flamel. He snipped off the nib and cast a Severing Charm to strip the feather down to its core.

"In order to plausibly fool the Alucards and the Ministry, remnants of your wand need to be found. With another application of the Reductor Curse and an Irreparable Charm, it would be as if your very own phoenix wand had been snapped."

Flamel muttered a few more spells on the phoenix-feather core, now decimated, and splayed it over the wood fragments.

Then, the alchemist pulled out the pebble and said, "Finite Incantatem."

The body from the morgue materialised.

"This is where it becomes a little tricky," said Flamel, removing a flask of murky, muddy liquid from the handbag. "I presume you recognise this gorgeous potion?"

"Polyjuice, before you add the essence of the person you want to turn into," Harry replied, remembering his Second Year.

"Not quite, young Skywalker. This is a Polyjuice Potion, but not your typical, garden variety. I have tampered with the formula, adding my own little amendments in order to augment its effects. If successful, this potion should last far longer than an hour," Flamel said.

He took out the vial of blood – Harry's blood – from earlier and added it to the murky potion. Immediately, the brown liquid bubbled and clarified, turning into a clear, bright gold.

"It should even transform dead bodies, a task which is impossible with ordinary Polyjuice Potion. All it needs is the purest and most potent essence of the person-to-be: your blood and a sample of your freshest magic."

The wide, enthusiastic grin unfolding on Flamel's face disturbed Harry.

"But that's Dark magic… That stuff is evil. How can you think– "

"Shouldn't you, out of all people, know that magic itself is a tool and beyond mere mortal labels such as 'good' and 'evil'?" interrupted Flamel.

He raised an eyebrow. "A Spell or a Potion is as 'Dark' as an axe or a sword. It is not the intrinsic magic itself, but the intent behind it which makes it wicked. Do your experiences with the Patronus Charm not attest to this fact?"

At Harry's downcast look, Flamel added gently: "There is little you need to do, Harry. Simply point your wand at this flask and say 'Appono'. It is for the greater good – you will save more people in the long run."

An image of Ron and Hermione from the Department of Mysteries shimmered in Harry's mind, like a mirage. The two of them were screaming, sweat pasted against their backs, while masked Death Eaters chased after them… laughing.

Nodding glumly at Flamel's words, Harry withdrew his wand from Mafalda's cardigan.

"_Appono_," he whispered.

A soft, white mist slivered out of the wand tip and into the flask of Polyjuice Potion. The golden liquid fizzed, like one of Ron's Acid Pops, and shifted into a lighter, lemon-yellow colour.

"Thank you, my boy, thank you," Flamel said to Harry, taking the potion. "Now watch this."

The alchemist walked over to the dead body from the morgue. Prying open the body's mouth, Flamel emptied the flask and poured in the sunshine-yellow liquid.

The body began to change. Its features bubbled and twisted, as though invisible insects were scampering beneath the skin. The long, blond hair shot back into the skull, while the slanted, black eyes grew pale and round. Harry looked away, rather nauseated by the transformation.

When Harry turned around again, there was a perfect replica of a sixteen year-old Harry Potter. However, this Harry's limbs were twisted at awkward angles, as though he had died in extreme pain. Unruly, black hair lay spread out in a blood-matted fan. His mouth was drooped in slack terror, glassy green eyes staring emptily at the sky. Harry could see a blackened, charred tongue lolling from the upper lip.

"How come this body is in its teens?" asked Harry thickly. His throat was parched; for some reason, he found it hard to speak. "Shouldn't it be around ten, like me?"

"Your magic recognises that your mind is sixteen, so the amended potion reflects that," Flamel answered. The alchemist removed the vacuum spell from the playground with a hasty _'Finite Incantatem'_.

"That is why I brought you here and implored that you provide a fresh sample of magic."

Harry ran his fingers through his hair and tried to ignore the body in front of him.

"So now what? We're just going to leave, then? Let somebody find the body? How is that supposed to– "

Harry froze; a pair of voices was approaching from across the road. Flamel passed him a look of utmost exigency, and Harry understood. He placed his hand over the alchemist's arm and tensed as Flamel turned on the spot.

Just as he began to feel the apparition take him, Harry heard a familiar hoarse voice in the distance and his heart leapt into his throat.

"Dora, I don't understand; how could you let the Death Eaters ambush and Confound you like that? Harry could be anywh– what is that? Dora, over there by that Penguin Slide– "

"_Professor Lupin_," croaked Harry, but already he felt his body begin to compress, as though it was being squeezed through a small, metal tube.

Seconds later, the pressure around his chest ceased, and he opened his eyes: they were standing in a large, unkempt garden, which hosted a colourful assortment of fanged flowers. A spindly tree, bearing a plumage of black, spear-shaped fruits, leaned against a row of squirming, slug-like plants Harry identified as Bubotubers. Feathery flowers with white petals which glittered and hissed whenever a draft passed through them clung to a jolly Muggle garden gnome.

"Our house is right along here. Follow me," said Flamel, walking past three pink Puffapods, which whinged and grunted while they waddled higgledy-piggledy through the undergrowth.

Soon, a small, white house with blue shutters and a Cockatrice weather vane emerged from the plants.

When Flamel unlocked the door, Harry pushed past brusquely and ran into the threshold. He ignored Flamel's voice, dashing up the creaking staircase three stairs at a time and through the pink, beribboned hallway. As he scampered into the closest bedroom, he felt his hip bump against a doll ornament and heard it crash on the floor, into a thousand crystalline tears.

But he didn't care. All Harry could think of was Lupin and how, by a cruel twist of fate, he would be the first to discover the planted body. The man had lost his closest friend fourteen years ago, and had to witness the death of another friend a mere month ago. And now he was about to stumble across another of the dead.

Numb with emotion, Harry sunk into a frilly, pink bed and closed his eyes, embracing the blissful oblivion of sleep that came.

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* * *

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When Harry woke up the next morning, the Polyjuice Potion had worn off and he was once again in his ten year-old body. Not particularly eager to read about his own disappearance in the news, he spent the rest of the day in the bedroom, exiting only for bathroom breaks. Flamel, despite his madcap exterior, was considerate enough to not bother him. Harry saw little of the alchemist but noticed that goblets of Pumpkin juice and plates of food (cucumber and roast beef sandwiches, a quarter orange) were being surreptitiously placed at the bedroom door.

Harry ate the food and went back to sleep. He didn't want to think anything at the moment. Whenever Harry paused, his mind drifted back to Lupin and his best friends, Ron and Hermione. And that was just too painful, still too raw on his mind.

Their reactions to the dead body would have been denial at first. Ron would laugh it off as one big joke, while Hermione would staunchly insist that it was the least likely event. Then would come the anger; they would scream and shout… Afterwards, their faces would begin to crumple, and Hermione would start crying and –

Harry gritted his teeth and slammed his eyes closed, trying to stifle those thoughts and return to sleep. Eventually, lethargy settled over his limbs and oblivious sleep returned.

This aimless routine of sleep and loafing continued for two more days. By the third day, Harry finally slapped himself in the face and jumped off the bed.

"Get a grip of yourself, you've got to start moving on," he muttered to himself, as he shook his head and cleared his mind. He picked up his wand from the bedside counter, which was shaped like an overgrown Billywig. "Just milling about will do no good."

After taking a few deep breaths and running through Snape's Occlumency drills, Harry turned the burnished brass doorknob and stepped out of the gaudy, lace-adorned bedroom. The hallway was alight with a golden wash of sunshine, alerting him to a late afternoon. Paintings of ugly girls in petticoats glowed with a faint oil patina.

Harry strolled past the various porcelain dolls, many disturbingly without heads, and down the stairs. Straining his ears for any sounds, he followed what sounded like a woman's voice, though occluded by static, into a winding corridor. Within seconds, Harry entered the kitchen.

The room was rather small and cluttered with tattering books and silver cooking utensils. A rickety table, accompanied by a series of matching, creaky chairs, was thrust to the right, away from the stove upon which a black pot boiled. Wearing flowery robes much like Aunt Petunia's nightgown, Nicolas Flamel sat on one of those chairs, staring intently at a small radio.

Harry joined Flamel by the table. "Good morn – _afternoon_, I guess. Sorry, but what are you doi– "

"Shush, my boy," interrupted Flamel, tapping at the wireless. "As fantastic as it is to finally see you up and about, I am attempting to listen to the news. The WWNN is about to broadcast."

"The WWNN?"

"Wizarding Wireless Network News," explained Flamel. A cool, female voice began to resound from the radio again. Flamel adjusted the dials. "Ah, here we are. Just in time, too."

"…your usual program of _'Toots, Shoots 'n' Roots'_ with Tilden Toots shall now be interrupted by a very special bulletin from the WWNN."

"It's that voice from the Ministry of Magic, the one from the elevator," said Harry, frowning. "This must be official."

"…in breaking news, Meliora Bagshot has been found dead in her cottage at Upper Flagley. Madam Bagshot, granddaughter-in-law of the celebrated magical historian Bathilda Bagshot, was widowed only last month, while on a family holiday to Continental Europe. Due to the unprecedented absence of the Dark Mark over her home, the cause of her death is still unknown. Madam Bagshot leaves behind an eleven year-old son."

Harry remembered, with an unpleasant flinch, that Bathilda Bagshot was the author of his textbook, '_A History of Magic_'. These deaths were getting closer to home.

"In other news, Muggle attacks continue. Following yesterday's murders of the Levski family, a family of five was found gutted and strung to the rafters of their own house in Carshalton. From the Dark Mark above their home, the family is speculated to be the victim of a Death Eater raid. Their only magical child, the Muggleborn Quinn Darby, remains in a critical condition at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

"Finally, more news concerning the shocking death of Harry Potter has emerged, as of today. I am pleased to be joined by Pius Thicknesse and Special Correspondent, Rita Skeeter. Good afternoon, Ms Skeeter, Mr Thicknesse."

"Hello, Lenore," said a girlish voice.

Thicknesse's gruff voice sounded: "Afternoon, Madam Edgecombe."

Harry frowned, bemused. "Pius Thicknesse?"

"The new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Flamel elucidated. "Amelia Bones's successor."

"Ms Skeeter, what are the new developments to the Harry Potter story?" intoned Lenore Edgecombe's cool, clipped voice. "Currently, the only information available on this shocking death is that the Boy-Who-Lived's body was found in Little Whinging, Surrey, and that it was Albus Dumbledore who reported the death to the Ministry of Magic."

"My, my, Lenore. You must get with the times, sweetheart," trilled Rita's saccharine voice. "Much more dirt has been dug up over the past few hours. Indeed, the mysterious tale of Harry Potter's death is becoming quite the sordid affair, as Pius will undoubtedly tell you."

"Mister Thicknesse? Is it true? Has the Ministry uncovered more evidence surrounding the Potter case?"

Thicknesse spoke slowly, much like the automated voices from Dudley's Vocaloid video games: "The Ministry of Magic has discovered new information concerning the Boy-Who-Lived's death. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has received clearance to announce that a suspect has been determined."

"Oh, do go on, Pius. You haven't even gotten to the best part yet," said Rita, her voice dripping with poorly concealed glee. "Tell the public who the scoundrel is."

"Please restrain yourself, Ms Skeeter; this is a national broadcast," Madam Edgecombe deadpanned.

"Thank you, Madam Edgecombe," Thicknesse said bracingly, while Rita cleared her throat with a cough and quietened. "As the representative of the DMLE, I am officially obliged to tell the Wizarding public, that the suspect concerned is none other than former Hogwarts Professor, Remus John Lupin."

Harry tightened his grip on the patio; Flamel twisted the dials of the wireless, turning up the volume.

"Yes, Remus Lupin! Isn't it just divine? A former teacher of Harry and, according to my sources, a school friend of James and Lily Potter!" said Rita, clapping her hands together. "I can already see the backstory of jealousy, old rivalries, family feuds, intertwining in a juicy, dirty tapestry."

"Are there any further details regarding the Harry Potter case, and Mr Lupin, which can be released to the public?" asked Madam Edgecombe in the usual cool, crisp tone, her voice betraying no shock at this unexpected development.

"Remus Lupin is a registered werewolf, and was spotted carrying Mr Potter's gnarled body in Begonia Park, Surrey, hours before Albus Dumbledore's reporting of the death at the Ministry of Magic. This, along with the testimony of Albert Runcorn, is enough to declare Mr Lupin a suspect."

"That doesn't quite explain why the DMLE is currently detaining Lupin, though, does it?" Rita said. Harry could imagine her pulling out that gaudy, green Quick-Quote Quill, jotting down the lurid details. "Not Azkaban, but a small Ministry cell? On the fourth floor? Without a trial, too."

"Mr Lupin's imprisonment is officially permitted under the Umbridge-Scamander Werewolf Regulation Act of 1993," Thicknesse said dully."Clause Seven of the Act states that the DMLE can, with the explicit permission of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, detain any werewolf who has a criminal history indefinitely, until the appropriate investigation is concluded."

An arrow of anger and shame shot through Harry. Had Lupin known that his false imprisonment was because of Harry? Because of his own weakness, in this stupid, young body.

"Since Mr Lupin has been gone on record for attacking two Muggles in 1992 and two wizards in 1994, Clause Seven can be applied," finished Madam Edgecombe. "That makes sense. But Mr Thicknesse, do you think that the imprisonment of Mr Lupin will appease the Wizarding public? The Ministry of Magic must be aware of the Diagon Alley Riots from two days ago. With the death of such a cherished public figure, fear is spreading through the populace."

Flamel snorted at the term "_cherished public figure_"; Evidently, the alchemist was aware of the antics of the Daily Prophet the year before, when everyone was claiming that Harry was a "schizophrenic attention-seeker".

"The Ministry is cognisant of the riots, and is doing everything within its power to conclude the Harry Potter case," said Thicknesse. "The Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, would like me to remind our listeners that our Aurors and Hit Wizards are working around the clock to capture the remaining Death Eaters and resolve the current civil unrest. There is no need to panic, or to flee the country. Everything is under control."

"But how can our listeners be certain that they and their families will be safe? A werewolf, one of the darkest creatures in existence, has killed our supposed Saviour, the Boy-Who-Lived!" added Rita in a soft, breathy tone, which reminded Harry of toady Umbridge when she had caught the DA. "Who is it to say that another dark monster or follower of You-Know-Who wouldn't off one of us in our beds?"

"In light of recent events, most prominently the Harry Potter Murder, the Ministry will be taking further steps to safeguard the lives of magical British society," answered Thicknesse.

"Further steps? What sort of changes does the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have in mind?" asked Madam Edgecombe.

"My sources imply that a curfew may be on the horizon, along with tighter regulations of werewolves and other Beasts and Beings," said Rita.

When Harry bit his lip, her syrupy voice added: "Perhaps martial law will be on the Ministry meeting table?"

"I am not authorised to confirm or deny any of those allegations," said Thicknesse stiffly. "Minister Scrimgeour has stated yesterday, though, that the murder of Harry Potter has shined light on the gaping holes in Wizarding security and the current war effort. I reiterate the Minister's words that the Boy-Who-Lived's death may prove to be the impetus for drastic, wartime legislation."

"The WWNN would like to remind our listeners that the Wizengamot is currently in session, and may be discussing the legislations mentioned by Mr Thicknesse," said Madam Edgecombe.

"Shouldn't you mention the body, Pius?" Rita said abruptly. "The DMLE has Harry's body, doesn't it? When is the body going to be released to the Boy-Who-Lived's custodians? Surely a funeral must be in our upcoming calendars!"

Harry felt his heart pound against his chest, as he remembered the false body with its glazed eyes and gnarled limbs. Flamel gave Harry a strangely excited, conspiratorial expression.

"Further testing on the body is required until we can determine the cause of death. We do not expect to conclude the analyses for another three days," replied Thicknesse. "The body will be in stasis at the Department of Mysteries in the meantime. The Minister of Magic himself will announce the prospective date of the boy's funeral at a later date. No further questions."

Rita was not easily deterred. "Surely the hero of modern times, the Chosen One who had endured so much for such a tragic end, deserves a state funeral in the upcomi– "

"And we appear to have reached the end of our bulletin," interrupted Madam Edgecombe, cutting off Rita's agitated voice. "Thank you very much to Pius Thicknesse and Rita Skeeter for your time and words."

Reluctantly, Rita grumbled something under her breath, while Thicknesse said, "You're welcome, Madam Edgecombe."

"The WWN advises our listeners to stay indoors and read the new leaflet from the Ministry of Magic: 'PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES'. Remember to set security questions for all family members and to contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at the first sign of trouble," said Edgecombe's clipped, cool voice.

"The next WWNN broadcast will be at seven o'clock, Saturday evening. This is Lenore Edgecombe, Senior Liaison for the WWN and Secretariat of Magical Media Management at the Ministry of Magic."

The standard orchestral overture resounded in the background, as Madam Edgecombe said, "The WWN and the Ministry of Magic wish you a pleasant afternoon."

The bulletin ended and the tinkling soundtrack associated with _'Toots, Shoots 'n' Roots'_ returned to the wireless. Flamel twirled the tuning dials and switched off the radio.

"That was most enlightening, was it not?" said Flamel brightly.

"Fantastic," said Harry bracingly. "I've learnt everything I wanted to know: the Ministry is experimenting with my fake body, people are rioting and oh, Professor Lupin is in jail. Because of me."

Flamel seemed to notice the bitterness unfolding across Harry's face. He turned around and squeezed Harry's knee.

"It is for the best. You're far too valuable to die, and this is the best way to protect you," Flamel said. "You know that."

"But the Ministry has _Lupin_. I can't forget that easily," said Harry hotly.

He stared at the floorboards. "He's the last link I have to Sirius."

Flamel's dark eyes flashed. "Harry, you're our only hope against the Dark Lord. You cannot die to the Alucards, not yet."

"Until you are better trained and your– " Flamel motioned at Harry's tiny body "–_condition_ is reversed, we cannot afford risking the exposure of your survival. The Alucards will find you again."

"I've lived through them once, who says I can't deal with them again?"

Flamel snatched a spool of pink wool from the kitchen-table and threw it at Harry's face.

"My naive boy, don't be such a fool! You survived only through sheer dumb luck," he said. "The Alucards believed that their '_perfect_' little poison would not fail to kill you. They were too arrogant and did not deign to check if you were truly dead. You shall not be so fortunate the second time."

Harry processed Flamel's words. He knew that the alchemist's logic could not be faulted. But still–

"Do I have your word that you will not risk your cover and go looking for trouble?" Flamel asked, after Harry, for a moment, did nothing but glare at his clenched fists. "Such as chasing after Remus Lupin at the Ministry of Magic?"

Harry bit on the inside of his mouth.

"You have my word," he said grudgingly, after a painful pause. He couldn't involve any more people in his own problems again; risk Ron and Hermione's lives. Not again. Lupin would just have to wait. This was all his fault, all his fault…

"Good! I'm relieved to see that you still possess some modicum of self-preservation," said Flamel sunnily. "For a moment, I thought all those years of reckless heroics had abraded your basest sensibilities."

The Alchemist rose from the table and with a twirl of his floral dressing gown, sauntered to the stove. From a kettle, he poured hot water into a bowl and added a sachet of black powder. Harry was caught off-guard by pungent wafts, much like those from one of Hagrid's "baking" monstrosities.

"Dried Screechsnap soup," offered Flamel, pushing the black liquid towards a grimacing Harry. "Tastes like Doxy droppings, but it will invigorate you. You must recover your strength, little one, unless you harbour a secret desire to be eviscerated by Death Eaters."

When Flamel grinned toothily at the mention of evisceration, Harry hastily grabbed a spoon and pulled the bowl towards him. He choked down the horrible soup, which burned at his tongue with a horrid, acrylic taste.

"If you are feeling better, let's discuss the subject of disguise," said Flamel. "The Alucards would be looking for a dark-haired boy with green eyes, so we will have to change those features first."

"Disguise? I don't understand."

"For your new identity. In order to maintain this ruse, we must make you a completely new person. Granted, the deaging has already done half the work for you, but a little more tweaking is necessary."

"Huh? What are you saying?"

When Harry gaped at him, Flamel raised an eyebrow. "You can't stay in my cottage forever. Eventually, you will have to return to the Wizarding world in some form to receive training. Intensive tutelage will be required to match the powers of Lord Voldemort."

With a wince, Harry sipped more of the Screechsnap soup. He hated it how Flamel was invariably right, as per usual.

"Would you like brown hair or blond hair?" asked Flamel, withdrawing his wand.

Harry contemplated his choices.

"Blond," he said, after deciding against red hair; it reminded him too much of the Weasleys. "The more different from my usual looks, the better, right?"

Flamel smiled and cracked his knuckles, as though he was about to undertake an extremely interesting science project.

"Too right, my boy. Now, now, let's get started, because we have an awfully long way to go."

He pointed his wand at Harry's head.

"Blue eyes or brown eyes?"

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-X-X-X-

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**AN/Dos:** I'm very happy that so many people have put this story on Alert and Favorited it, but it is a little weird that I have three times the Story Favorites for HP&TT than reviews. I know that they can be annoying, but just a minute or two out of your life to give me a comment, positive or negative, would help me a long way. Both as a motivational tool which proves that I actually have readers out there and also as a means of improving my prose.

So please, review!

**Apropos Olah et Akedah:** Calm your farts when it comes to the Dagger, btw. It will, like Mr McGregor, be a Chekov's Boomerang and not be some cliche Magic Weapon/Solution to Everything/Deus ex Machina. As I've told enembee, its proper purpose will be better explained in further chapters, by Flamel.

C'est le message personel que j'ai envoyé à mon ami: My view of Deus ex Machina, though, is that it's only terrible if the hero gets a use out of it, because it not only defies the logic of the story but also tips the scales too much in the hero's favour. If the villain gets a use of it too, then that's a different story, right?

Long story short, the Dagger simply extracts the purest possible sample of blood and increases the blood's intrinsic magical potencies, if it has any. Flamel used it merely to increase the magical properties of Harry's blood, in order to increase the possibility of success of the amended Polyjuice potion. That's all. So the Dagger is pretty useless except in potion making, to extract any animal blood. Even then, it's not the Hand of God, Athena's Potionstick, or whatever you call those Deus ex Machina these days.

Voldemort and/or Alucards, as competent as villains are, might get a use out of it, however...

btw, my French sucks, as you could probably tell. Hey, at least I didn't use babelfish, or an online translator. xP


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